The column is uncharacteristically unequivocal in its praise of The Abbey Inn, Byland Abbey.

JUST as the Master Pedants would argue that nothing can be fairly unique - either it's unique or it isn't - so it may be supposed that no claim can be almost unequivocal, a word defined in the Bloomsbury English Dictionary as "allowing for no doubt or misinterpretation".

Unequivocalness is, in any case, a rare visitor to this column's shores, as common as snow on Christmas Day or naughty children the expectant evening before.

The following review, all of equiver, will therefore have to be described as as unequivocal as it gets. The Abbey Inn at Byland is thunderously good for all that.

Admittedly, the Yorkshire puddings might have been made a little before the sun was over the yard arm and thus didn't sing and dance and praise the Lord as such Sabbath creations properly should; undoubtedly they should think about getting proper napkins; maybe they should learn how to spell Caesar...

The trouble with chalk and blackboard menus is that they don't have a spellcheck, though The Boss (who's pretty smart at such things) recalled the case of a menu where "grilled aubergines" had been vetoed by the spellcheck and grilled Aborigines inserted, unfortunately, in its place.

Even now, the American machine on which the column is input inserts a wavy line beneath the word aubergine. Don't computers ever learn?

Byland Abbey was a Cistercian monastery built almost 1,000 years ago near Coxwold, in North Yorkshire, said to have taken 99 years in the construction and to have been the biggest ecclesiastical building in Europe.

Though made redundant during Henry VIII's irreligious reign - one of the guides says the abbey was "sacked with great verve", recalling former FA chief executive Graham Kelly's after dinner joke that he was fired with enthusiasm - its ruins remain handsome against the skyline. Sadly, however, English Heritage closes the site in winter.

The ivy clad inn, immediately over the road, was built in the mid-19th century under the guidance of Fr John Molyneux, a Benedictine known as Honest John. Some of the stone had previously been used in the original abbey.

We called for Sunday lunch, so perfect a December day that hikers ate their picnic on the bench across the road and might almost have been envied. The Abbey Inn, however, put even such al fresco adventures in the shade.

Though the pub guides embrace it like a long lost son, it's now hardly a pub at all. The gospel according to owners Jane and Martin Nordli describes it as a "restaurant with rooms", though there's still a good pint of Black Sheep - the hand pumped Tetley's may be equally fine - and a comfortable little lounge between the dining rooms.

It's food which underpins its reputation for excellence, however, and why so many people return. (Gags about the Abbey habit may be inserted according to taste.)

The rooms are handsome, civilised, but in no way over-formal. The table had a model of Rudolph, or one of his close relatives, the chair was a wonderfully proportioned Jacobean thing in which Father Bear might luxuriantly have enjoyed his porridge.

A one course Sunday lunch is £10, two courses £14.50, three £19, and for such quality and surroundings, worth every penny.

Having pointed out the error of the blackboard's ways, a spelling lesson received with better grace than probably it deserved, it seemed only right to start with the smoked chicken Caesar salad - named not after Julius, he of the Caesarean section, but after a Mexican chef called Caesar Gardini.

It came abundantly and beautifully presented with bits of bacon and a memorable sauce; The Boss' smoked salmon was no less appreciated.

The roast pork, sliced thick as a docker's sandwich, tasted of porker and not of production line, the crackling was sensational, the roast potatoes vibrant in their freshness, the vegetables plentiful and carefully cooked.

"It breaks my heart to leave that cauliflower cheese," said The Boss, a little over-dramatically, though it must certainly have been a considerable disappointment.

She'd nonetheless seen off a large chunk of cod with lemon and parsley, followed by a lemon posset so full of festive spirit it could probably have sung the Hallelujah Chorus.

Likewise a masterful creme brulee, accompanied by white chocolate ice cream, shortbread and a spun sugar creation which made it, The Boss supposed, resemble an Ascot hat.

The mainly youthful, white aproned staff were admirable in every way, the inn wholly relaxing, the occasion perfect. Unequivocally, the best Sunday lunch for five years.

l The Abbey Inn, Byland Abbey, Coxwold, North Yorkshire (01347 868204). Sunday lunch 12-4pm, closed Sunday evening and Monday lunchtime. No smoking, no problem for disabled diners, wisest to book.

AS probably we mentioned a couple of weeks back, one of the most improbable outposts of the Indian empire - Villa Spice at the Trotters Arms in Ramshaw - officially opens tomorrow night.

Ramshaw's an elderly, one street village near Evenwood in south-west Durham. The Trotters has been getting along that way for donkeys' years.

Villa Spice, says the invitation, will offer "a style of cooking so spectacular that only a few places in the world are able successfully to serve it".

There's even talk of the Food of Kings, of silky sauces and of food delivered with style and panache. The column's invited; more next week.

THE day before the formal announcement of GNER's bid to retain the East Coast main line franchise, we'd travelled up to London and back. The services are generally punctual, the staff fine, but if they can't do anything about the papier-mache apology for a ham and cheese toastie - all that remained from Go Eat's supposedly extensive range - then they'd best give the job to Virgin.

LAST week's piece on the new Wardrooms restaurant at the Billingham Arms hotel not only prompted sympathetic agreement about the forgotten state of Billingham town centre but a suggestion from Norton historian Bob Harbron of how the Wardrooms - originally a Royal Navy officers' mess - came by its name.

In 1914, says Bob, the troop ship the Olympic - a sister to the Titanic - was stripped of most of its fittings and furnishings to make it into a hospital ship, and the interior put into storage.

Where did the staircase and some of the posher fittings end up? The dear old Billy Arms Hotel.

...and finally, the bairns wondered if we knew the best way to kill off a circus.

Go for the juggler.