The remotest pub on mainland Britain is accessible only by a 15 mile yomp across the mountains or by the MV Western Isles, three times a week (unless inclement.)

Once hammer and tongs, the Old Forge now rests quietly in the lochside hamlet of Inverie, part of the utterly isolated Knoydart Peninsula - historically and inarguably the Rough Bounds of Knoydart - in the western Highlands.

The Ship Inn is much closer to civilisation, if not necessarily to heaven. The only pub in Middlestone Village, near Spennymoor, it celebrated runner-up position in CAMRA's national Pub of the Year contest by challenging its customers to visit within a year all 5,000 entries in the Good Beer Guide.

Since the Old Forge is among them - no Rough with the Smoothflow there, then - it seemed proper to push the boat out. This is the column, after all, which goes out of its way to be helpful.

The Western Isles sails from Mallaig, a kippery fishing port at the end of the close-confined A82. A camel may more easily pass through the eye of a needle, as the Good Book has it, than might two cars pass on parts of the A82.

The vessel is operated by Bruce Watt, who must not be confused with Bruce Wayne - who was Batman - with James Watt, who invented steam engines nor with Caledonian MacBrayne, who so comprehensively control most of the other transport links in those glorious parts that a poem was written in their honour:

The earth belongs unto the Lord

And all that it contains,

Except for the Kyles and the Western Isles

And they belong to MacBrayne's.

About 20 joined the 10.15am sailing, a motley crew including the minister leading up to his weekly service on Inverie, a couple of local worthies off for a meeting of the Knoydart Foundation and a university lecturer from Richmond who'd climbed 158 of Scotland's 284 Munros - mountains over 3,000ft - and hoped by the end of the day to have made it 159.

He wondered if The Northern Echo might be paying. "A matter of negotiation," we said, untruthfully, though after a few days holiday we returned with souvenirs from another six far flung pubs on the Ship's thirsty work sheet.

The boat also carried post, papers and Piesporter for the Pierhouse Restaurant. If not quite greeted by the town band as it tied up, it was welcomed by a yellow dog which wagged its tail like billy-oh.

The views, of course, are stupendous, the Western Isles escorted part of the way by a posse of porpoises. The worthies, we concluded, must be attending a meeting of the general porpoises committee.

Inverie has a pub, a restaurant, a tiny school, a Big House and a few smaller ones and a single track road which, truncated at both ends, leads nowhere whatsoever.

A history of the area describes the rocks an "an intractable mix of Moinian schists", so that it is possible simultaneously to not understand a word and to know what it means exactly.

There is also a sign warning of speed cameras - perhaps erected by someone pulling a fast one - and a dinghy called Pontius.

A Pilate boat, presumably.

Among the things which Knoydart doesn't have are streets, street lighting, traffic wardens, traffic lights, a cricket pitch, a mobile telephone signal, a polliss and a Tesco supermarket.

The Old Forge is long, low and lovely. Dress code, says its promotional leaflet, is wellies, waterproofs and midge cream. Since this year's are still girding their loins, however - or whatever it is that midges do to work up so insatiable an appetite - Knoydart also suffers an invasion of do-gooders.

Clearly disorientated, there was even a chap from the Countryside Council of Wales.

First into the pub - cook, barmaid and general factotum playing cards - we were quickly joined by a boat load. The general factotum played patience, instead.

A notice offered hot shower and hair dryer for £4, another asked owners not to leave their dinghies on the steps, a third announced that the pub had (deservedly) won the Highlands and Islands small business award for 2001.

The barmaid ran everywhere, as if in training for the 100m at the Knoydart Games.

The Skye Brewery beer was excellent, the whisky graded according to peat content, the food imaginative if a little expensive.

We sailed back towards Co Durham with a bag full of mementoes for the Ship's charity auction: been there, done that, got rather a lot of T-shirts.

BEFORE Sir Hugh Munro published his list of Scotland's top 3,000s, estimates had put the total at around 30.

Now "Munro bagging" is a popular sport amongst mountain men, the first two climbers to claim a complete set both clergymen - a variation, perhaps, on nearer my God to thee.

The only one of the 284 which needed specialist equipment or expertise, it was said, was the Inaccessible Pinnacle of Sgurr Dearg on Skye - drastically demoted from a "Munro" to a "Top" in 1981. They've been conquered in a single expedition, during the same winter and, in 1992, within 51 days. Over 2,000 people have now claimed the comprehensive high ground.

A distinct Scottish peak over 2,500 feet is now a Corbett, over 2,000 feet a Graham. In Lakeland, for reasons which outdoor folk will understand, top people take to the Wainwrights instead.

THE Ship's latest auction, proceeds to the Butterwick Hospice in Bishop Auckland, took place on the night we headed homewards from the Highlands.

There was a thronged beer festival, too. Downstairs they'd sold out completely, upstairs the casks emptied remorselessly; the auction raised almost £700.

This was the pub that was closed, deemed both untenable and untenantable, until Graham and Liz Snaith began their remarkable resuscitation barely 18 months ago.

Excellent night as it was, however, the column's most vivid memory of the Ship is from the annual awards night of Spennymoor Boxing Academy when - between presenting trophies - we'd rested against the edge of a table and failed to notice that a rather magnificent gateau was resting there, too.

The boxing club boys have never forgotten it. It made a pretty big impression on the gateau, an' all.

THE Stag's Head at Butterknowle, west Durham, is closed yet again. Next to it, the Gaunless Valley Visitor Centre staged a successful exhibition last weekend of the area's deep dug past.

There were old photographs of Nelson and of Eleanor, who'd worked the coal trains between Woodland and Lands collieries, of cricket in Wham and camp services on Cockfield Fell, of Haggerleazes branch and Lands viaduct, Primitive Methodist, pigeon fancier and pub yard pugilist.

There's more information on mining at the next exhibition at the visitors' centre, on June 15 and 16, organised by Gaunless Valley History Group.

And another major exhibition, at Butterknowle Community Centre from August 24 to 26, will concentrate on railways and tramways.

After producing CDs of historic images of other Gaunless Valley communities, group member Mike Heaviside has now completed the CD-ROM of the Evenwood and Barony parish.

It's £7.50 (cheques to the Gaunless Valley History Trust) from Mike at 2 Moor View, Cockfield, Co Durham DL13 5EX but we've a copy to give away to the first person to name Evenwood FC's successful manager when they won the Northern League championship in 1969 and 1971.

Unlike the poor old Stag's Head, the heritage centre is open every day during the summer.

DRY docked at the Stag's, we wandered for a Sunday lunchtime refresher up to the Royal Oak, an unspoiled and welcoming little pub in Butterknowle where our old friend John Constable now finds himself leek club chairman.

"He's using computers," they said suspiciously.

John ran the acclaimed but ultimately s hort-lived Butterknowle Brewery and still lives in Lynesack old school, along the road. Now, they report in the Oak, he's living up to his name. John Constable is framing pictures.