As the column relives fond memories of romance, Doug and Pearl Hall, proprietors of the Golden Lion in Romanby, recall their own perfect pairing.

BEFORE St Valentine's Day fades into a roseate mist, it should be recalled that we spent our honeymoon - 26 happy years ago - in Teesdale, goosegogged by a bright yellow Triumph Dolomite.

At least two memories abide, the first concerning what Jennings and Darbishire used to call an apple pie bed, but which on this occasion comprised two dozen packets of cheese and onion crisps concealed beneath the matrimonial mattress.

We wouldn't have minded so much if they'd been ready salted.

The other memory is of an evening in the Blacksmiths Arms at Mickleton, which until the year previously, had been the village workmen's club and was reckoned the smallest in Britain.

Though you could hardly swing a caterpillar in there, it was certainly a CIU with a view.

Legend, regularly and unreliably repeated, is that the bride beat the groom at dominoes (and that the groom, yet more improbably, took the huff). Two Sundays ago, we returned down lovers' lane.

Mickleton is a couple of miles this side of Middleton-in-Teesdale, also remembered for the village carnival which, circa 1974, the column had been invited to open.

The chairman announced how pleased they were but, he added, Mike Amos hadn't been first choice. The first choice had been Mike Neville, but Mike Neville was £50 and Mike Amos was nowt.

Mike Amos's fee has increased by 1,000 per cent; Mike Neville doesn't turn out much these days.

The Blacksmiths is cottagey, welcoming, wonderful fire blazing early doors. It was steady away without, as a blacksmith might say, going hammer and tongs.

Marston's Pedigree, and Ruddles and John Smith's bitters are on hand pump; Sunday lunch choice was rather more limited - pork or beef.

Though the place seems bigger than it used to be, six or seven dining tables share a room with the pool table. In the bar, the talk had been of the new railway museum in Shildon - "Great place, pity about what they've done to Timothy Hackworth's cottage" - over pool they were discussing glandular fever, not the usual accompaniment to roast beef.

There was also a young lad who several times insisted that he had "won his dad" at pool. Either it was a new and yet more egregious TV reality show or the child should have been taken out the back and beaten with a copy of First Aid in English.

We had one of each, £5.95, both plates full of chunky, tasty, properly cooked meat and with a very good Yorkshire pudding. Side dishes overflowed with the usual veg, competently prepared. The Boss, often a reluctant attender at the Sunday school, approved whole- heartedly.

The pudding club also had even fewer members than Mickleton workmen's: gateau or apple pie, £2.20 apiece. We asked for one pie and two spoons and sat like the love Birds on the custard tin, romancing cheek to cheek.

It was only when the subject of a return dominoes match was raised that things turned a little difficult. The bride made her excuses and left.

STILL the Eating Owt column's honeymoon period continues, but first a little scene setting of a more prosaic nature.

The train service from Darlington to Northallerton is as wretched as ever, obliging us to catch the 5.37pm to a match which didn't start until 7.30 - the next departure not for almost five hours.

Seeking solace in the town centre, we bumped into Big Peter Jacques and were at once directed towards the Golden Lion in Romanby.

Romanby is to Northallerton what Cockerton (say) is to Darlington or Belmont to Durham, that is they are joined almost seamlessly. Though the "village" grows apace, the comfortable Golden Lion (on no account to be confused with the Golden Lion in Northallerton High Street) remains the only pub.

It was 6.30pm, still time to choose from the 5-7pm specials list which for a fiver includes dishes like bacon chop and pineapple, wild boar burger, and sausage and mash with a red wine gravy - and to bag a starter from the main board.

We ordered black pudding fritters (£3.75) and if ever there were a cholesterol cascading, artery embalming affair of the heart, it's a couple of black pudding fritters. What the heck: The Boss was elsewhere, the Good Doctor on sabbatical, the recent blood pressure test absurdly, improbably, encouragingly normal.

You should have seen them, the shape and size of a pair of quarter pounders, layered with horseradish sauce (or some such) and served with a little side salad which was entirely pleasant but, as a contribution to a balanced diet, still hopelessly at the wrong end of the see-saw.

It was while thus engaged - frittering away with one hand, writing about the Blacksmiths Arms with the other, eavesdropping stereophonically - that we realised the highly hospitable landlord was just married, too.

Doug Hall and Pearl Miller had been together for years. "People kept asking why we didn't get married," said Doug. "I told them it was called bigamy."

Born thereabouts, he'd been a bookie in Darlington, lived in Fishburn, remains a local football referee after 25 years service. She'd had the Lord Nelson in Appleton Wiske and a fish shop, Pearl's Plaice, in Bishop Auckland.

They've been at the Golden Lion a year. "The customers say I've done to this pub what Hitler did to Germany," said Doug, who's 58.

"He calls me the YTS scheme," said Pearl, who's younger.

They were married on January 29, spent the honeymoon touring northern racecourses and football grounds - he's Newcastle, she's Leeds United - and were just back, Mr and Mrs.

Another pint of John Smith's bitter accompanied a chicken and mushroom pie - more a casserole topped with puff pastry - and a tray of vegetables and good chips which it was impossible entirely to shift.

The happy hour diners were moving off, the back shift in the restaurant joined in the bar by those anxious to watch England v Holland on television.

It proved the classic bore draw, barely a shot on goal, while down the Romanby road at Northallerton Town, the locals were 6-2 up at half time and finally beat Crook Town 7-3.

Black pudding fritters and the Albany Northern League, truly a match made in heaven.

RECOUNTING a Brobdingnagian Sunday lunch at the Manor House in Ferryhill, last week's column noted that the menu also catered for "small adults" but that there may not be many small adults in Ferryhill. Maybe not, but there are octogenarians like Mr JW Davison who writes in praise of Manor manner. "The standard portions are too much for me and my wife and we don't like to see food wasted. The gesture is very much appreciated."

LAST week's column also reflected, quietly, on Sam Smith's Brewery's new policy of no music, television or similar electronic intrusion in its pubs. That night we happened to be in the Colpitts in Durham - a coal fired, wholly unspoiled, jolly little bottle and juggery which is another of Sam's. The only entertainment was the quiz, and they went quiet for that, an' all. The other questions alas, the brewery isn't prepared to answer.

...and finally, the bairns (don't ya just love them?) wondered if we knew what was green and held up stagecoaches.

Dick Gherkin, of course.