The Game Tavern isn't the place for those who like Sunday lunch to offer change and a doggy bag from a fifty shilling note, nor indeed - as shortly we shall explain - for diners who prefer to be home for the World at One.

With one or two slings in the tail - see under "tardiness", above - it is very, very good, nonetheless.

The "Tavern" is part of the Simonstone Hall hotel, set scenically above Hawes in Wensleydale; the "game" chiefly of the shooting and fishing kind - a notice appeals for more memorabilia - though the foyer has pictures of whiskery cricketers and of Mrs Lilly Langtry, who played a more dangerous game altogether.

Even the immaculate gents has prints, including the familiar portrayal of the ragged soldier and the dancing bear. Simonstone and his amazing dancing bear? - fans of Mr Alan Price will appreciate the well respected digression.

From one of the more distant alcoves, the rattle of dominoes also emerged - unexpected but by no means unwelcome - played for the sum of 20p a corner.

There were seven players, Mr John Robinson - retired butcher from Great Smeaton - apparently parting the locals from rather a lot of heptagonal coins of this realm. Whether there is provision within the Betting, Gaming and Lotteries Act for seven-man dominoes at 20p a throw, or whether the North Yorkshire constabulary is at this moment planning to execute a warrant, we have not been able to discover.

Suffice that there'd be half a dozen long faces at the auction mart that Tuesday.

Lunch is served only in the bar (or lounge, or whatever) from a carte and a specials board, and is characterised by the robustness of the cooking - an outstanding starter of supreme of pigeon with a wild mushroom compote and (at last) some proper filo pastry - the vividness of the flavours, the quality of the ingredients and the particular excellence of the vegetables.

We were seated beneath a vast, framed wall map of the North Riding, a county (it was the start of the rainy season) about to become semi-submerged.

Though no arrow indicated our whereabouts, it was neither here nor there.

Ours the wild pigeon - we wondered, a sign of things not to come, if they'd gone into the woods to catch it - hers a first rate, anchovy rich, Caesar salad.

Other starters included pheasant with a honey and raspberry sauce, mackerel fillet in a "Moroccan" sauce and tomato red pepper soup.

Bangers and mash were £5.95, fillet of roast beef £13.50, supreme of chicken £9.50 and filled with smoked Wensleydale cheese, topped with the most splendidly crisp, slightly salty bacon and served with vegetables, aforesaid, and an apple and thyme sauce.

What made up the memorable sauce with the courgettes, we asked? "Tomato, herbs, wine, red peppers and a touch of chef's genius," said the returning waiter.

No false modesty; he was quite right.

The Boss had a tuna steak, as good as it looked - and it was presented very prettily.

The puddings, however, proved more troublesome, the geniuses in the kitchen seemingly doing little more than think about it, the bread and pudding arriving almost 40 minutes after being ordered and failing to stand the test of time.

The Boss's cranachan - a Scottish concoction of oatmeal biscuits, honey and cream which sounded remarkably like a station on the West Highland Railway - was more up to standard.

Precious little arrived by way of apology or explanation, though someone did remark that the sous chef had walked out. That's the trouble with the sous, always on the warpath.

As things deteriorated a little, the waiter advised care with the coffee pot's loose lid because he didn't want us scalded - helpful hint: get another bloody coffee pot - and then jammed the electronic innards of the winken-blinken high falutin' till. (Further hint: kick its silly backside for it.) The bill without drinks reached £35 and no doggy bags. Very fair game, nonetheless.

A swift lunch in the bar/brasserie at Bishop Auckland Town Hall - watercress and lentil soup (£1.25) and chicken curry (£2.75) on the agenda. Both were manifestly home made, both hugely enjoyable. It's open six days, lift to the first floor, pity there's no real ale - but the best place of its kind for many a mile.

Monkey business: a few columns back we recalled the little feller who lived in a cage at the back of the Queens Head in Gainford.

"He was called Pico, a cappuccino," says Jim Brown, from Darlington.

"Cappuccino's coffee."

"Something Italian, anyway," says Jim, who has particular reason to remember playing Pico-boo.

It was the late 1960s, Jim in his best teddy boy suit ("£14 from Burton's"), draught Guinness half a crown a pint.

Elsie Naismith, the landlady, had warned them that Pico could be a bad tempered little perisher - probably not surprising, since Jim's mates were in the habit of feeding him tab ends.

It may also explain why Pico thought he'd had enough of the dump, stretched out an arm and ripped the four sleeve buttons from his Ted suit. "After that," says Jim, "we threw him nuts instead."

Several readers, non-anoraks they collectively insist, have pointed out that the picture of dear old Nigel Gresley in last week's column was taken not at Grosmont station, but at Pickering. We snapped it, someone else wrote the caption.

Mr J Thompson in Darlington further reckons that there were 35 A4 Pacifics, not 34, the original 60006 (Sir Ralph Wedgwood) having been destroyed in a German air raid on York station on April 29, 1942. They started again.

Some names changed, too. Ralphy Wedgwood was originally Herring Gull, Sir Charles Newton (60005) was Capercaillie - which, apparently, is a sort of super-heavyweight grouse.

Wherever and by whatever name, the old blue streaks were magnificent.

....and finally, the elder bairn returns for half term - "reading week" they call it at university - with a story of the benefits of further education.

Chap goes into a supermarket with a fish under his arm, asks if they sell fishcakes.

The assistant asks how many he'd like.

"Only one," says the chap, "it's his birthday."