A Running Water-ing hole

WITHOUT offence to the many good folk who propose places for this weekly once-over, a particular frisson arose - a tingle of uncommon excitement - at an email from Wilf Dixon.

It wasn't so much that he recommended The Three Horse Shoes at Running Waters, though he was enthusiastic enough - "friendly atmosphere, good food and the Castle Eden ale's excellent" - but his name itself.

Wearing another hat, we've been vainly trying to track Wilf Dixon for the past 12 months.

He was Arsenal's assistant manager when in 1971 we first won the double, an age of sweaty socks and sand shoes when some still called him the trainer.

The Cup had been clinched with a 2-1 extra-time winner against Liverpool from a long haired skinnymalink called Charlie George, a painting of the moment still proudly in this office, where others would hang pie chart or pipe rack.

It was a day when the earth moved, and the night - come to think - wasn't so bad, either.

Wilf went subsequently to Hull City and with Terry Neill to Spurs, retired to his native North-East - Plawsworth or Nettlesworth or one of those places north of Durham - defying arthritis to train with Sunderland until he was 82.

"It's not so bad after the first 200 yards," he once said.

He'll be getting on 85 now. Could he be striking lucky with the pension money at the Three Horse Shoes?

Double entendre, we answered his email at once. Could the Wilf Dixon line have ended at last? Wilf said he was sorry but he had two left feet, supported Newcastle and wasn't 85. We went to the Horse Shoes anyway.

Running Waters is barely a drop in the ocean, a pub and not much else alongside the A181, between Durham and the A19. The name, apparently, flowed from a nearby spring.

A solitary LibDem placard stood on the opposite verge like a party political scarecrow; our old friend Mr Roy Simpson happened, coincidentally, to be within.

Roy's secretary of the Durham Coast Cricket League, which resumed operations last Saturday, and annually produces a pocket guide to the rabbit run of rules and regulations covering local cup competitions.

Many are memorials to local heroes: the Tom Johnson, the Alf Smith, the Captain Ramsden, the Matthew Oswald. There's also the Yours Forever Saunders Cup, not so named as an indication that it may be held in perpetuity but as a genuflection to the sponsor, a florist in South Shields.

We asked for a pint of Castle Eden, as recommended by Wilf Dixon (if not the Wilf Dixon). The single hand pump gurgled, choked and expired.

"Have you ever seen a grown man cry?" said The Boss.

Martyn and Sara Parkinson lived nearby at Strawberry Hill Farm, bought their local six years ago last week, have made a very good fist of it.

The pub's agreeable, the bar convivial, the pretty little restaurant at the back has properly set tables, nice views and even nicer staff.

A two course lunch menu, £6.50, included mince and dumplings, sweet and sour chicken, and liver and onions, for which the lady of this house has an almost pregnant passion. Yet again, she thought it a winning combination.

We'd begun with pakoras served with a simple but successful mint and garlic dressing, the start a little delayed because the waitress sent one of the pakoras skidding from plate to carpet.

The Flying Pakoras sounds like a trapeze act from Billy Smart's Circus. They probably wish they'd thought of it first.

For all that, and though the food is wholly acceptable, it's the friendly, chatty staff who really make the place.

There was an elderly couple called Florence and Joe, off to book an exotic adventure at Safari Holidays in Hetton-le-Hole but before discovering the great unknown, faced with the slight logistical problem of how to find Hetton. A Flo-Joe area, as it were.

The waitresses stopped to chat, to advise and to consult, and not only with Flo and Joe. They really were top rate - natural, that's the word.

The other notable thing was that from the first attempt to lay siege to Castle Eden we'd been offered a tab, without being asked a name or given a table number.

Do they simply write down: "Good looking feller in the Arsenal jumper", and is this what's meant by keeping tabs on folk?

She'd started with a selection of cold seafood, we'd followed from the main menu with a trio of "pork medallions" (£8.50) of the sort which might only be awarded to weight lifters. The meat was succulent, the accompanying mushroom and onion sauce very tasty.

Though we passed on puddings which seemed proprietary - "chocolate lumpy bumpy" notwithstanding - it had been a relaxing and a most enjoyable lunchtime. He always was a good lad, Wilf Dixon.

* The Three Horse Shoes, Running Waters, Durham (0191-372 0286). Two course lunch £6.50, three course dinner £8.50, plus regular menu and snacks. Open seven days. No problem for the disabled.

SOMEONE - forget who - has handed over a discount ticket for Big Sheep and Little Cow Farm, alongside the A1 south of Leeming Bar. "One free child and a cup of tea," it says. Our reader's duly grateful, but says he'll stick to the cup of tea.

SHE has been away yet again - Italy, iterately - contentiously claiming the right to Rome. Home alone, we sought advice in the pub about Darlington's best breakfast. "Try Mackay's Caf," said the Billy the Binman.

Billy isn't his real name - he fears municipal repercussions for speaking to the press - and binman isn't his real job title, either. "According to the town hall I'm an environmental health reclamation operative - or some such bloody thing," he said.

We went to Mackays anyway, accompanied by the elder son, lest in pining for his mother (and his breakfast) he waste away to 18 stones.

It's above the covered market, overlooking the High Row, slightly smoky but cheerful and welcoming. A group of old comrades who looked like they'd been there every Friday since the war ended, sat amicably putting the world to rights; a waitress in a put-upon pinny seemed to know everyone by name.

"Early" breakfast is £2, full breakfast (until 12 o'clock) £3.40. Real men don't eat early breakfast. The bacon was particularly good, mushrooms and black pudding conspicuous by their absence. All perfectly pleasant: when in Darlington, do as Billy the Binman.

PART of a flaky chain, the Pasty Shop on Newcastle railway station offers a choice of substantial savouries, decent garlic chips and a bottle of Coke or something for a total £3.99, which isn't bad at all. The problem is the open air tables alongside. If they can have those fancy convector heater things al fresco in Fuengirola, might they not warm up platform 2 at Newcastle Central, an' all?

...and finally, the bairns wondered if we knew what sort of hens lay electric eggs.

Battery hens, of course.

Published: 26/04/2005