THE Methodist head lad once again being late for lunch, we fell to reading the admirable parish magazine of the Anglican churches of St Mary's, Throckley, and St Michael and All Angels, Newburn. Christmas Day, it revealed, has always been memorable.

On December 25, 1066, William the Conqueror was crowned king of England; on December 25, 1492, Christopher Columbus's ship the Santa Maria was wrecked and on the great day 90 years ago, German and British troops played football in no man's land.

Then the Rev Leo Osborn, chairman of the widely flung Newcastle upon Tyne Methodist district, bowled breathlessly into the Keelman at Newburn, five miles west of Newcastle, and bearing an early Christmas present.

The Boss has great avalanches of snow globes, those little dome shaped things - familiarly with a plastic Blackpool Tower or Nelson's Column inside - which produce a tinselly storm when shaken.

This one came from Cuba where Leo, their man in Havana, had recently been on a mission. The Cuban snow globe appeared to embrace the Loch Ness monster, perhaps explaining why there have been so few recent sightings in the Highlands.

The Keelman is next to the Big Lamp Brewery, what beer men call the brewery tap, and is the Good Pub Guide's national "Own Brew Pub of the Year" for 2005. "Decent, quickly served food," adds the GPG and on the occasion, was only 50 per cent correct.

The pub, handsomely and imaginatively converted, began life in 1854 as a pumping station. The keelmen, as in "Well may the keel row", were the lads who took the coal down river.

It was very busy, mothers' merriments and things, which understandably explained why some only served and others sat and waited. From an enticing range of what might be termed home brews, we had a magnificent pint of Big Lamp Bitter (£1.76); Leo, altogether more abstemious, ordered his usual ginger beer.

They didn't have ginger beer in Cuba, thus inducing severe withdrawal symptoms. A small ginger beer in Newburn was only 21p less than a pint of bitter. Big Lamp's luminous range also includes Old Genie, Blue Bonnet - as in The Keel Row - and something called Blackout, 11 per cent abv and perhaps euphemistically described as "formidable".

The menu is largely made up of middle of the road pub food, though there was a "teenage section", 13 to 16-year-olds, comprising battered chicken sandwich, pepperoni pizza and tuna and pasta bake.

It could cause problems. Perhaps proof of age is required before being allowed to get to grips with a battered chicken sandwich.

Seated upstairs in the well filled, festively decorated pub, we began with a Keelman combo for two - the usual collection of bread crumbed and deep fried nibbles which included some surprisingly good chicken and some fishy things of rather less certain provenance.

Leo was talking about Cuba, where the Methodist church is growing faster than anywhere else in the world, and where finally they have their own hymn book instead of the imported edition.

It excludes See Amid the Winter's Snow, an omission which in the Caribbean may not wholly be regretted.

He had chicken and mushroom pie, we steak and kidney, each topped with a tasty short crust pastry. The filling tasted much like steak and kidney pie anywhere in the world, including Cuba probably. The chicken and mushroom was reckoned bland, but the gravy must have been good because the minister was eating it with his knife.

Leo rated it six out of ten but, since it was the season of goodwill, reconsidered and gave it six-and-a-half. Time neither for pudding nor coffee, we still left rather later than had been anticipated. The Methodist chairman was the steadier, an even keelman as always.

l The Keelman, Grange Road, Newburn, Newcastle. Bar food 12-9pm, no problem for the disabled.

SINCE it's Christmas, we were finally allocated the round table by the window - the one with the views over the green - at the celebrated County in Aycliffe Village on Friday. Since it's December and the low sun was blinding everyone, they had to close the curtains.

LAST Wednesday's official opening of Villa Spice at the Trotters Arms in Ramshaw proved rather a no room at the inn job, the corporate eyes bigger than the belly. Ramshaw's a barely changing little place near Evenwood in County Durham. Villa Spice - "a bit of a culture shock," said a friendly local - promised all sorts of gastronomic glee making, and looked the part, anyway.

The problem was that, though we'd been formally invited and replied as requested, there just weren't any tables and those on what had become the first sitting hadn't even started eating.

On top of that there was a turn. She was probably a very good turn, as a boy scout might say, but the gentleman's definitely not for turning.

We headed instead for the Sun at Wackerfield, a few miles away on the road from West Auckland to Barnard Castle, It was December 15, almost the shortest day; the Sun appeared to have set.

The pub was warm, festive, attractive; the welcome was bitter cold, misanthropic, repellent.

The barmaid, uniquely, managed to take the drinks order, serve it and produce change for £10 without ever once uttering a syllable, her mouth in neutral and her brain in reverse.

The waitress did have something to say, however, when in an almost empty restaurant we took seats at a table for four. Doubtless under orders, she asked us to change to a table for two, lest quadrilles queued to join the merriment.

Bing and the boys carolled carefree in the background. It might not have been possible to roast chestnuts on the coal-effect fires, but the place really was a picture. This one, alas, didn't tell the story.

The "Christmas" menu was probably little different to any other, save for the addition of turkey and all. The tomato soup was perfectly OK, the miserable bread roll a glimpse of Christmas past. The duck leg, no hint of crispness in the skin, came with a Dubonnet, orange and cranberry sauce. So that's what one of those tastes like.

More drinks were ordered; a pint of Courage Directors (fine) and a sparkling mineral water. The water was served in a bottle, not even with the top off. No glass, no ice, no lemon and absolutely no idea.

The Boss had a decent Caesar salad with bacon, an unmemorable chilli and garlic bread which she considered slimy, grotesque and disgusting.

We left at 9.15pm, not a soul then left on board in either bar or restaurant. Perhaps the Ship comes sailing in on Saturday.

A RATHER warmer welcome at the Lodge at Leeming, formerly the Leeming Bar Motel, where we spoke on Thursday at Northallerton Probus club's annual Christmas lunch - Probus an organisation for men who are getting on a bit but not the retiring type. The Lodge had heard we were coming and specially restored supplies to the hand pump. The column, unable to drink on its feet, had Coke. Cheers, anyway.

...and finally, the bairns wondered if we knew who looks after spooks on aircraft.

Air ghostesses, of course.

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