A HOLIDAY in Italy in my late teens has a lot to answer for. A week in Rimini, the Adriatic's version of Margate, seemed the height of sophistication for a gauche lad from suburban London. As well as developing a life-long passion for pasta, it also led to a similarly fond appreciation of the aperitif Campari.

Which is fine, except when you're not in a pavement caf on the sun-kissed Italian Riviera. Like when you're in a pub in North Yorkshire. Just as real men don't eat quiche, real men in the pub don't drink luridly crimson Campari, even when they just fancy a sharpener before dinner.

After almost 30 years, I should be used to the embarrassment by now. There was one celebrated occasion when, at a staff do, a round of drinks was passed across to us from the bar. "Who ordered the puff's drink," shouted a particularly agricultural and non-PC member of my staff (not the Farming Editor, I hasten to add), in a voice loud enough to be heard in Milan.

On many occasions, of course, pubs don't stock it and I half expected that to be the case when we called in at the Bay Horse, betwixt Northallerton and Darlington, last week. Elbowing my way to the bar through the large gentlemen drinking pints, I enquired if they had any, in the style of teenage boy seeking his first "packet-of-three".. There was a pause, and I was about to opt for a pint of Magnet instead, when the barmaid began a search of the various bottles stacked behind the optics.

Thankfully, the very soul-of-discretion refrained from shouting "Where's the b...... Campari?" to her colleague across the bar and retrieved the bottle of pinky-red stickiness and duly mixed a measure with soda without attracting too much attention.

So far so good, I thought, as we were shown to a table in the dining area next to a window with a fine view of the A167 and the floodlit St Helen's Church beyond. At the far end of the bar from the blazing fire, it was a little on the chilly side.

The food turned out to be good blend of traditional pub favourites and more exotic dishes from the East and the Mediterranean. So there were steaks and pies, sizzlers and game dishes along with a specials menu.

Sylvia's soup from the standard menu was vegetable (£3) and clearly laced with something vaguely alcoholic which gave it a highly creditable kick and turned out to be Madeira.

My king prawns wrapped in Filo pastry with a chilli dip (£4.75) were crispy, crunchy and juicy in all the right places. The dip was pleasantly piquant rather than raging hot. The accompanying salad was plentiful if somewhat undressed.

Other starters which tempted us were grilled goats cheese with pesto and pine nuts (£4.75) and Stilton-filled mushroom caps topped with parsley and breadcrumbs (£4.25)

Our main courses came from the specials menu and Sylvia chose a fillet steak jambori (£14.50) which was filled with goats cheese and topped with garlic prawns. This was perfectly cooked to medium as ordered and the cheese added a richness to what would otherwise have been a plain steak.

It was accompanied by a selection of new potatoes, mange-tout, broccoli, and baby carrots.

My Moroccan lamb (£11.25) had been slowly cooked with spices and apricots and was served with a large helping of cous cous and salad. The lamb was very, very tender and my only niggle was that the thick sauce was quite dry and quickly got soaked up by the cous cous.

Helpings were certainly ample so it was a surprise when the main courses were further accompanied by a huge helping of chips. Which was a bit of shame, as they were excellent but we couldn't eat more than a couple.

Dessert choices included standards such as bread and butter pudding and apple crumble but we were stumped.

Service provided by the previously-discreet barmaid was very good considering she was also running the bar and attending to other diners virtually single handed. The bill of £38 was, we thought, par for the course.

The Bay Horse's tenants, Julie and David Mash, are relative newcomers to the village but judging by the crowd in the night we were there, they are building a loyal clientele. They clearly cater for most tastes - even men who drink Campari