IT was a splendid week off, thanks: a plodge around Whitby, a blow along the Northumberland coast at Craster and a walk over the lonely high road between Swaledale and Wensleydale, Muker to Askrigg.

Just two farms dot that far-flung five miles and only one farmer, urgently whistling to his sheep from atop a crag as if in warning against a wolf in Marks & Spencers' clothing.

This should not, of course, be confused with a wolf whistle, described in the Oxford Dictionary as "A distinctive whistle from a man expressing sexual admiration for a woman." There will be no looping the lupine here.

The farmer did wonderfully well, gathering flock to the fold in a stream of secretive Swaddle in which the only decipherable word was "Herbert".

All the sheep appeared to be called Herbert, and even that might have lost something in the translation.

The more curious thing, and we have observed this several times recently in the dales, is that the farmer seems no longer to have a dog - his best friend has been downsized. For one man and his dog, read one man.

A NEW organisation called the Two Dales Partnership, Swaledale and Arkengarthdale in this case, has been conducting a survey into communications in those remote parts.

Particularly when talking telephone numbers, the lines seem badly to be crossed. Mobiles get them nowhere whatsoever, landlines are reminiscent of the second party days which were supposed to have ended in the 1970s.

In Keld, 56 per cent of those who responded to a questionnaire either "frequently" or "very frequently" experienced an engaged tone when lifting the receiver. The BT service even further up the dale was described as a "disgrace".

The Two Dales Partnership better understood the frustrations after trying to have a couple of lines installed at their new offices in Reeth. It took 47 calls to BT, and conversations with 68 different people, before someone finally rang a bell.

ANOTHER word puzzle: at Whitby they're again mucking about with the famous swing bridge. A notice announces that whilst work is ongoing, the mechanism will be worked by a jury rig.

Could a jury rig have anything to do with a rigged jury? The Oxford English pleads not proven.

The dictionary also lists jury masts, jury legs and jury tillers. It's a term meaning "temporary" or "makeshift" and can't possibly apply, therefore, to the jury in the Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? case.

That one seemed to have been there for ever.

AMONG many messages awaiting our return was one from a lady up Durham way, pleading for information about Carlin Sunday. "My grandchildren just laugh at me when I try to explain," she said.

Apparently there was an appeal on BBC Radio Cleveland on Sunday for pubs which still sold the little grey beauties. None broke the radio silence, though they're as luscious as ever in the Brit.

There's also a page and a half about the Passion Sunday tradition in Durham Town and Country magazine, though its author found just two outlets in the old county - the ever-admirable Chittock's in Bishop Auckland (which calls them carlings) and Maddox's in Stockton.

Maddox's is a pet food shop.

MUCH of the last column was spent on the trains, including the London Underground. John Ingham in Lanchester wants to invite readers to name the Underground station with six successive consonants in its name and we would, had he supplied the answer.

For Sue Percival in Durham, the Underground movement stirred memories of one of her husband Allan's more original presents - a metal wall map of the line from Euston to Watford Junction, including the short branch to Croxley Green.

Allan is clearly a saint. He waited years, says his wife, before the full romantic significance of a metal Tube map that previously had hung on a station wall dawned upon her. It charted their stations in life.

"On this one map, our entire history unfolds before we had the good sense to move North.

"The various stations depict where we were both born, went to school, attended church and youth club - where we met - where our parents lived, the hospital where I trained as a nurse, the police station where Allan was a special constable and once had to guard the town hall clock all night, where we married and where we bought our first house. All different stations, all on one map."

At last appreciated, the map now hangs on top of the stairs. Happy landings? Oh, says Sue, undoubtedly.

PULLING out all the stops, we'd also listed some of the country's most idyllic sounding railway stations, places like Sugar Loaf, Ash Vale and Strawberry Hill.

There was Flowery Field, too, a sweet sounding suburb of Hyde, in Cheshire. Susan Jaleel, born in Hyde but now in Darlington, cautions against floribundance.

"Flowery Field is mainly industrial, home to the one remaining cotton mill and to a fair sized industrial estate with all sorts of interesting trading.

"To use estate agent speak, it is definitely not a sought-after area. You'd be pushed to find a field anywhere."

IAN McDougall in Bishop Auckland travels occasionally between Worcester Shrub Hill and Oxford, a transport of delight through stations like Honeybourne, Finstock, Pershore, Moreton-in-Marsh and Ascott-under-Wychwood.

The village of Adlestrop, about which the poet Edward Thomas wrote after a passing moment, is also on the line:

And willows, willow herb and grass,

And meadow sweet and haycocks dry,

Now whit less still and lonely fair

Then the high cloudlets in the sky.

Adlestrop station, alas, is no longer, done for by Dr Beeching.

A DOZEN railway stations which a well bred young lady might want to take home to meet the folks: Roy Bridge (Scotland), Percy Main (Tyne and Wear Metro), Ben Rhydding (West Yorkshire), Bruce Grove (London), Dudley Port (Black Country), Harold Wood (Essex), Humphrey Park (Manchester), James Street (Liverpool), Perry Barr (Birmingham), Moses Gate (Bolton), Lawrence Hill (Bristol), Kirk Sandall (Doncaster)...

And a dozen which might catch a young man's fancy: Hazel Grove (Stockport) and Rose Grove (Burnley), Burton Joyce (Nottingham), Virginia Water (Surrey), Maiden Newton (Dorset), Seven Sisters (London).

WE'D also been talking about airports, Barrow International in particular, but - wings clipped by the space man - may have to return to that one next week.

It prompted an exchange of correspondence with David Thompson in Eaglescliffe and, finally, an explanation for his delayed response - his wife Hazel had given birth to twin daughters, ten weeks early, on Mothers' Day.

Harriet and Eleanor are doing well; our aviation expert remains up in the clouds. Congratulations.