THERE are black days and, as Mr Larry Grayson almost observed, there are grey days. A red-letter day has nothing to do with final demands from the Revenue, however, rather the phrase dates back to medieval church calendars, when saints’ days were so identified.

Sunday – nine days ago – was a black day. It said as much on the Wensleydale Railway timetable.

They’ve other colours, almost a hue’s who, but this was primary importance, high season, peak period.

What’s more, it was steam.

I’ve not had much luck with steam this year. A planned trip around the south Northumberland lines was aborted when the locomotive blew a gasket; the dining train on the North Yorkshire Moors Railway was hauled by a diseasel.

So it was splendid to see number 80105 warming chirpily to its task and only slightly disappointing – not a swizz, more what Jennings (or perhaps it was Darbishire) called a chiz – that the steam engine was actually hauling a rather mongrel diesel multiple unit.

The line runs 16 miles from Leeming Bar, near the A1, through Bedale and Leyburn to Redmire, in Wensleydale, where the station has sand pits and paddling pool. The journey’s described as “stunning” and is, indeed, exceptionally attractive.

The plan was to take the mile-anda- half footpath from Redmire to Castle Bolton and to have something to eat in Bolton Castle tearoom, about which the lady of this house had heard good things.

Leaflets describe the walk as “stunning”, too, the word now concussively overused. It’s no less lovely, but all that might be stunning would be being emasculated in one of those eye-of-a-needle stone stiles with which the Yorkshire Dales are so fearfully beset.

It was a pleasant, occasionally sunny morning. Next to Leeming Bar station, the Simply Dutch shop – internationally in the news for selling what apparently were giant willies – was preparing for its Sunday best.

You could also buy a large Venus, not to be confused with a large anything else, for £199.95 – a reminder, speaking of smut, that some of the railway’s neighbours are said to be unhappy about steam and stuff on their new uPVC.

Not formal complaints, exactly, more dirty looks. At any rate, Simply Dutch is likely to have been altogether busier than the Wensleydale Railway was.

There may not have been 20 folk on the whole trip, only about five on the diesel-hauled train that passed in the opposite direction.

The railway has no main line connection; still a missing link at Northallerton. It had cost £3,000, said the guard, to transport the loco by road. “It still has to get back,” he added, a little lugubriously.

The journey’s great, nature from an unexpected angle. “I feel like someone from a Ladybird Book: What to see on the Trains,” said the Boss.

It’s hard to suppose which she more greatly coveted, the posh conservatories in Newton-le-Willows or the wild rasps near Harmby.

Constable Bolton’s delightful, too, a timeless, hilltop village where St Oswald’s church – the parish of Bolton-cum-Redmire – proves particularly visitor friendly. The scrapbook even has a photograph of me opening Redmire Village Hall, many years ago, gesticulating wildly as instructed by the photographer.

The tearoom’s up a flight of stone steps. There wasn’t a menu, though the tables had all sorts of stuff about the castle’s forthcoming attractions.

On August 21 and 22 they’ve a Spanish Armada weekend, said to replicate how castle staff would have prepared for such unwelcome visitors – altogether better, it’s to be hoped, than they did for a couple of dozen one summer Sunday morning.

Perhaps they’d simply forgotten that the James Herriott run was finishing nearby.

The queue lengthened. The two girls on duty – no reflection on them, they just needed reinforcements – trying in vain to cope with the invasion.

Every table was uncleared. Had they been instructed to stand by to repel boarders, the place could hardly have appeared more unwel coming.

Eventually I had a flapjack, fine, and a lukewarm coffee. Whoever said that this job was a piece of cake – there have been many – clearly had a point.

Instead we headed for the Bolton Arms at Redmire – civilised and welcoming though formerly with a reputation that those who failed to appear for lunch by the stroke of 2pm might turn into a bag of crisps.

Traditionalists would love the lunch. Four roasts, £7.95, overflow the plates. The meat’s from the butcher up the dale in Bainbridge; gravy’s already poured. The whole thing was excellent in a homely sort of way, not least the perfectly cooked roast potatoes. The young waitress was admirable.

Having already had our cake and eaten it, we shared a piping hot apple and blackcurrant crumble.

(“Shared” is a slightly imprecise term, meaning I gave her half a spoonful.) The return journey, alas, was even quieter than the morning train had been. Probably only a dozen alighted at Leeming. Black books notwithstanding, they deserve very much better than that.

■ Steam operates on the Wensleydale Railway most days until the end of August – visit wwensleydalerailway.com or call 08454-505474. Very reasonable fares, all sorts of initiatives – just the thing to put colour in the cheeks.

LAST week’s piece on the Bridge at Whorlton, near Barnard Castle, noted that there’s a vacancy on the parish council – the winner, in the event of more than one nomination, to be chosen by the existing councillors. There’s also a vacancy on Wolviston Parish Council, near Billingham, reports Martin Birtle – and an explanation of why they use the same system. If they “choose” a new member, the cost’s about £50; if there’s a village by-election, it costs about £3,000.

A COUPLE of convivial, early evening pints – perfect Timothy Taylor’s Landlord, £2.70 – at the Bay Horse in Heighington, between Darlington and Bishop Auckland.

There’s a chap who, 25 years ago, set the quiz at the Station in Hurworth Place and recalls an ignominious evening when we’d entered it, flunked it and written about it.

“I invited everyone to name the odd one out between Jack the Ripper, the Yorkshire Ripper and the Archbishop of Canterbury. Everyone said it was the Archbishop, but it was the Yorkshire Ripper,” he says.

Sadly, he’s forgotten why. “I think it might have been because the other two were called George,” he says.

The chauffeuse (qv) having arrived, we nip across the green to the village takeaway. The menu’s huge and cosmopolitan, fish and chips the enduring attraction.

There’s also something on the menu about the UK’s fastest growing online eating portal, whatever one of those may be.

Fish and chips are £4. The cod’s huge, immaculately fresh, piping hot and with moreish batter. The chips are equally abundant.

We wrote last week of an “average”

– very average – ham sandwich with a bit of lettuce and a few crisps for a fiver. Done well, as at Heighington, fish and chips must remain about the best food bargain there is.

THE bells of St Michael’s peal agreeably as we eat outside the Heighington takeaway.

They ring no longer for the George and Dragon, 100 yards along. The pub, which we rated, suddenly closed a few weeks back. The World Cup flags still fly forlornly outside, dead flowers droop on the tables. In the window of this licensed Marie Celeste is the dreaded “Notice of peaceable re-entry.” Another pub stands empty; peace at what price?

…and finally back to the Bay Horse, where they insist on telling the story of the chap with a lettuce in his ear who asks the doctor if it’s serious.

“I’m afraid so,” says the doc. “It’s just the tip of the iceberg.”