THE battle for the Duke of Wellington was quickly fought and lost, the opposition not so much routed as ignored, the eviscerators employed apace. "Eviscerate" means to disembowel, and it is against that background and that intemperate language - putting the boot into the Wellington - that Colin Jones has sent a gutsy e-mail: "I'm afraid to say that I quite liked it."

All's Welly that ends welly? We would not quite go that far.

The Duke of Wellington is alongside the old A1 at Nevilles Cross, Durham. It was a hugely popular Bass owned pub with a lovely little bar, murals of the Grand Old Duke, excellent pub food and coteries of contented regulars.

Last year, however, Bass - the axiomatic antithesis of the adage about not fixing what aint broke - decided that it should be re-born as an Ember Inn, the 122nd. The open plan conversion has cost half a million, the corporate watchword is "Drink in the friendly atmosphere".

Colin, from Spennymoor, went with his mum and was immediately impressed by the prominent notices advising that under 14s aren't allowed and over 14s (as the law dictates) only if dining with an adult.

In that respect we wish entirely to keep up, and to be associated with, the Joneses. There are enough wacky wherewithals as it is.

He also liked the mix of seating - sofas, bar stools, arm chairs - the nooks and crannies and the "good and friendly" service and was taken aback when someone put coal onto what had hitherto seemed a gas fire.

This is a puzzle. Though the same thing happened last Thursday lunchtime, we suspect that this is some sort of virtual coal, a product that has never seen seam. (For a real fire, see Wellington Heifer, below.)

It was as full as ever it had been. We ordered a pint of London Pride for £2.15 - London price, an' all - and picked up a leaflet about Ember Inns real ale festival from April 3 to May 11. Surely even a curmudgeonly old column like this one could mutter cheers to that?

Up to a point, but these are almost all nationally available Big Brother beers. If only as a gesture to the neighbours, couldn't they allow some of the local micro-brewers a much needed outlet - not least the superlative Durham Brewery, barely four miles away? Or would that put a flea among the fraternity?

Colin and his old mum had thought the food "OK", which was fair enough. Generally predictable starters included prawn cocktail (£3.50), tomato and vegetable soup (£2.20 with "rough cut country vegetables") and Thai fishcakes (£3.90) which had the consistency of an elderly inner tube.

Roast chicken and mushroom pie had a substantial shortcrust pastry, decent chips and the sort of gravy that may come from a great national gravy well - probably near Burton-on-Trent - so identical its taste to so much else that is bowled. (The same may be said for the "Thai spices")

The cheapest main course was "vegetable fried noodles" (£4.30), the most expensive were £7.40 - mixed grill, grilled salmon and the "combo feast".

Asked if the tab could be kept open, the barmaid demanded to swipe our card - can you imagine Bobby Thompson's reaction? "Why thoo knaas, she sez she wanted te swipe me card. Ah sez thoo can hadaway an' shuffle, aa've only just swiped it mesel'."

Since the column believes neither in credit nor in credit cards, we paid cash up front.

It is right to say that everyone seemed entirely happy in the new surroundings, though they should not make themselves too comfortable. The poor Duke of Wellington may have been eviscerated, but the brave new concept will last only until the next big idea. After that, as certain as Basso profundo, Ember Inns will be dismembered an' all.

THE Wellington Heifer, neither to be confused with the Heffalump nor with Eric Heffer who was MP for Liverpool (Walton) and banged on about the Class Struggle and similar conscience causes, is an extremely pleasant, coal fired pub at Ainderby Steeple, just west of Northallerton.

Though there is a history of shorthorn cattle breeding thereabouts - and of pubs commemorating the best beasts - no one appears to know exactly how this one came by its name nor who this particular Wellington might have been. And what, come to that, of beef wellington, which basically means that the meat is wrapped in a pastry case, like a pasty with delusions of grandeur?

Though a wellington may (of course) be a gardening boot, or a kind of cooking apple, or a chest of drawers for keeping specimens, the otherwise all-embracing Oxford English Dictionary offers no suggestion that it is also a sort of culinary cocoon.

Does beef wellington owe its origins to Arthur, the first Duke, or to the town of that name in Shropshire, or simply to some far fetched notion that the casing was like a rubber boot? Readers are once again invited to help.

Meanwhile back in Ainderby Steeple, Di and Colin Stratton, pub owners for the past ten months and anxious to re-establish it as the hub of village life, offer a warm welcome on a cold night.

He's in charge of the wet side - cask Tetley's and Magnet - plus poppy sales in October; she's in charge of everything else. It seems a reasonable division of labour, except that the poppy sales might have to be re-negotiated.

The immaculate, bright blazing front lounge also has lots of old photographs - including the blacksmith's prize porker, but nothing of prodigious heifers - and a long gone Ainderby Steeple feature from the Darlington and Stockton Times which revealed that Dorothy Tutin's grandfather once lived there.

Their appeal for more village memories has been successful. "I'm having to take out a second mortgage to buy all the frames," said Colin.

Long closed, the pub was restored in the 1970s by Billy Booth, definitely not to be confused with the Salvation Army founder, on his return from cattle farming in Argentina. They know all about beef down there.

The menu is new, ambitious and lengthy. Two course lunch specials are £7.95. There is no beef wellington, but a vegetable wellington among half a dozen vegetarian main course choices.

The Boss - can fish swim? - began with the mussels, we with something called a black pudding tower which, even with this column's giddy head for heights, proved more of a maisonette.

Both presentation and ingredients were terrific, however - what might be termed butcher's black pudding, large croutons, mushrooms, onions, a more-ish red wine and a roll with which to absorb it.

She followed with enjoyable salmon and cod fish cakes with a prawn and lobster bisque sauce, we with lamb with an apricot crust, served pinker than many would prefer - and therefore they should have asked.

The vegetables were well cooked. (Mr Harry Foster, who lives only a couple of miles away, wrote here only last week to lament the lack of such things. He should catch the next bus from Northallerton.)

The Boss's creme brulee was fine, the lemon syllabub unexceptional. The food bill was about £36, the fire - like the best things in life - was free.

DOWN country a bit, we looked into the Crown at Great Ouseburn, near Boroughbridge, for a quick one with Harry Cox - high profile former landlord of the Marquis of Granby at Byers Green, the Brown Jug at Evenwood Gate and the George at Billy Row, Crook. He's 76, lives near his daughter Barbara - who has the pub - still enjoys a pint but has shaved off the whiskers which made him a familiar face in the John North column in the 1970s.

Apparently we used to call him "hirsute", an adjective of which he approved. "Everyone," said Harry, "thought that it meant dead sexy."

VALENTINE'S night, loved it, Barbara James was at the Countryman in Bolam, where several times we have enthused about the clear commitment to good food and real ale and to the manifest care for their calling.

Barbara also learned - we carried a news story the other day - that the Countryman is for sale because they're just not getting enough trade. As the landlord observed, all the praise in the world has meant nothing.

Can't you do anything, asks Barbara's e-mail? The Countryman's just off the A68 above West Auckland, turn south-west at Royal Oak. We can but try.

...and finally, the bairns wondered if we knew what you call a guard with 100 legs. A sentry-pede, of course.

Published: Tuesday, February 26, 2002