AS YOU round the corner on to the Western Bypass, the Angel of the North rears up before you, the symbol of the North-East, of new hope rising from the remnants of the old industry.

Drive closer and the Angel appears to drop down until she is hidden behind the bare branches of trees. Which is appropriate as, during this campaign, the symbol of hope has been eclipsed by one of fear - the large white elephant which, it is said, an assembly would turn out to be.

"I voted three days ago," says a woman beneath the Angel's outspread wings. "I felt like filling all the page with no, no, no, no, no. As a senior citizen, it will not benefit me one little bit."

Some tourists from Copenhagen say that in their country, there is a debate about making their 15 regions bigger so that there are only five.

"People are afraid of losing contact with their local authorities," says a Dane. From Denmark to Durham, the feeling may be mutual.

Four Polish businessmen dismount from a silver Mercedes people carrier with sinister black windows. They're here to buy coal-mining machinery.

"Poland is much more centralised," says their powerfully-built leader, with a splendid Eastern European moustache bristling beneath his nose. "It is better when you govern in your own area because you know your own needs."

In this unscientific straw poll, he is the odd one out.

In Durham, the cathedral is a monument to the glory of God and a symbol of the huge power of the Prince Bishops who, a millennium ago, were the last to govern regionally.

But a university technician has voted no because "I'm hard-up and it will cost me money". A lady in the cathedral shop has voted no because it's "toothless" - "if it had been a northern assembly with real power, I would have voted yes", she says.

A tourist from West Yorkshire urges a no vote because "if the North-East votes for it, they'll come for us next".

A passing priest is more positive. "I would love to have voted yes, but I'm from the other side of the Pennines," he says.

The chill wind pulls on his manuscript bag and brings with it the throaty buzz of chainsaws in the woods beneath Palace Green and the whirr of drills from workmen up high on scaffolding around the Chapel of the Nine Altars.

The clergyman gusts back. "For what it's worth," he adds, "if we do get a vote in North Cumbria, I'll be a no because I don't want to be governed from Manchester."

It's a complicated business this regional government.

Aren't we having one of them referendums?" ask a group of elderly day-trippers from Cheshire, sitting in the sun. "Eeee, did that Bush get in or was it that other fella?"

Twenty miles south, the Transporter Bridge is the symbol of Teesside. On its cargo deck, there aren't any yes votes.

"It's another load of MPs," says a country and western fan with a painted brooch of a rampant stallion at his throat. "It'll cost." He's sitting in an immaculate 1970 Volvo with an on-board fuel consumption computer and an eight-track cartridge player which, at the touch of a button, belts out Buddy Holly's Peggy Sue.

In another car is a Teesside scaffolding boss. "I've told all my employees not to vote for it, them and their families - it could be a thousand people," he says.

He's deeply sceptical of Ray Mallon, the Middlesbrough mayor advocating a yes vote. In fact, he's so deeply sceptical of all politicians that he is seriously thinking of relocating to Iraq. "You can get scaffolding shoes out there, and an AK47 as well," he says.

A chap in a holey sweatshirt sitting in a van tells it straight. "It's a load of crap," he says. "I don't make heads nor tails of half of it, but it's a load of bollocks for me."

When the bridge reaches the Middlesbrough side, his engine refuses to start and, red-faced, he needs a push.

And on this evidence, as the votes were being counted on this historic referendum day, an elected regional assembly also appeared to be a non-starter.