IT may be considered no more than an occupational hazard that there are places after all these years where the column is, shall we say, less welcome than in others.

We have been shown the door more often than a foreman joiner, barred out of everywhere from Wheatley Hill dog track - smokers' cough, long story - to the Kensington Hilton (a story longer yet, those involved only just protected by the 30 year rule).

The most memorable exclusion zone, many a Christmas past, was the Olde English Gentleman - now the Tap and Spile - in Darlington, after festive frolicking went so far it collapsed, passion spent, onto the front page.

Suffice that a true Gentleman would have rested on his elbows.

The most unlikely was three years ago, the Four Alls at Ovington on the Durham/North Yorkshire border near Barnard Castle, asked to leave within five minutes of arrival on no more heinous an indictment than being Mike Amos.

"You ridicule all the pubs around here," said the landlord, ludicrously.

Old Grumpysocks is gone now, though apparently no further than the bottom of the garden. This is not, of course, to suggest that he is a gnome.

In his place 18 months ago came John Stroud and family, moved lock, stock and barrel from Maidstone where their Ales of Kent brewery produced beers like Contraflow, Old Ma Weasel and Smugglers Mild.

They hope to continue production, though purely for locals' consumption. Four Alls Bitter should be on tap this week; Smugglers Mild may surreptitiously follow.

We arrived without booking, if not without reservation, and were recognised at once. It was a bit like Moriarty, or whoever it was, bursting hell bent and histrionic into Sherlock Holmes's rooms in Baker Street and being waved to the other chair with the gentle observation that he'd been expected.

John himself was behind the bar, comfortable in bucolic braces and altogether welcoming. On the other side of the bar sat the chap who, two years earlier, had seemed to take such dolorous delight in the summary ejection.

He seemed altogether more affable, too, as if merriment were infectious and manners cost nowt (which, in both instances, is the happy case).

A huge Christmas tree twinkled outside, the whole village similarly and no less cheerfully decorated. Inside the pub, the halls were joyfully decked, the coal fire bright blazing, the atmosphere immediately convivial.

It may always have been like that, of course. We just never had the chance to find out.

Until he gets Four Alls Bitter in pristine nick - there's been a little problem with the thermostat - John's real ales are Tetley Bitter and a guest; last Wednesday a perfect pint of Shepherd Neame.

That we made frequent notes was nothing to do with the Eating Owt column, however, rather a last chance to compile the North-East section of the Echo's Superbrain contest.

Regular Superbrain stormers might be surprised, if not necessarily grateful, at the effort which goes into it, particularly after the unfortunate matter last year of Cushy Butterfield's relationship with the muck man.

The menu, we might also have noted, is good, honest, middle-of-the-road pub grub, of which the pinnacle is almost certainly the pies - not just like mother used to bake, but baked by mother herself.

Jean Stroud and her husband came north, too. Now she cooks and bakes and bustles and the herby, creamy, short crust chicken and ham pie was quite the best in memory.

The Boss had begun with a well-flavoured broccoli and Stilton soup, followed from four or five vegetarian choices by Thai vegetable schnitzel, which required an explanation but translated perfectly well.

We'd started with potato wedges - she having bagged the soup - and finished with the biggest spotted dick you ever did see (as almost they used to say in the Woodentops).

It was a highly convivial evening, food bill about £28 for two, in a charming English pub. We left exchanging compliments of the season - this Christmas, happily, there will be room at the inn.

* The Four Alls, Ovington, near Barnard Castle (01833) 627302. Meals seven evenings plus Saturday and Sunday lunch. No problem for the disabled.

ANOTHER mild spell forecast: Darlington Drinker, the local CAMRA branch newsletter, reports that the chap who brews Britain's champion mild is also relocating to the dales.

Peter Fairhall, once a partner in a Cambridge law firm, began Lidstone's Brewery in 1998 in his mum's shed near Newmarket, made beers like Lucky Punter, Rawalpindi IPA and Colquhoun's Dark Mischief Stout and this summer won the top title for the 3.2 abv Rowley Mild, said in the Good Beer Guide to be "impressively rich and flavoursome".

Needing to expand, he tried unsuccessfully to buy the threatened Kings Arms at Redmire, near Leyburn, and has now pitched up with a partner at the renowned Foresters Arms at Carlton-in-Coverdale, a few miles south.

It will be known as the Wensleydale Brewery, nonetheless. More of that, with luck, early in the new year.

ON the Slug and Lettuce trail, last week's column wondered what the long word for "fear of slugs" might be. Whatever it is, Zoe Birtle has it bad. Zoe, from Billingham, has a Cambridge doctorate in zoology. "Snakes are fine, frogs no problem, but if she sees a slug, she runs a mile screaming," reports her dad.

Bill Taylor in Canada and Tom Purvis, closer to home in Sunderland, agree that the word is limaxaphobia. By way of aide memoire, Tom also sticks a sluggish creature to the envelope.

Enjoy your cornflakes.

IT'S exactly a year, says Brian Robertshaw, since the Black Lion in Richmond closed suddenly. Like many more in that under-served market town, he misses it greatly.

Brian recalls wholesome food and excellent bonhomie, folk nights which would overflow the place and windows flung open so that those outside might also say thank you for the music.

He might also have mentioned the wonderful atmosphere in the coal-fired back room, where the late and lamented Keith Petty served the world's best pickled onions, insulted the clientele with glorious abandon and bedazzled the bar with a floribundance of waistcoats.

Keith died in January 1999, his secret pickled onion recipe taken with him to the grave. "All I know is that they stank the place out," said his sister.

The pub is now shuttered and barred, resembling - says Brian - a corner of England in the riots. "It is a terrible eyesore. The owners have managed to do what two world wars couldn't do; they've closed it."

Pubmaster, the owners, tell the column they have found a temporary manager who will run the pub over Christmas - details posted outside - but that it will close again in the New Year to allow refurbishment and to recruit a tenant.

The Lion will roar again, they say, "as soon as possible" after refurbishment is complete. It'll never have such good pickled onions, though.

...and finally, the bairns wondered if we knew what's pink and curly and cuts the grass.

A prawn mower, of course.