ON Sedgefield village green, in the shadow of the 13th Century church of St Edmund's, the protestors were furious.

Their faces were contorted with rage, their posters were covered in blood (apart from the quintessentially English one that read: "Mr Bush is not very nice") and they shouted and snarled at those behind the vehicle's glass as it sped down the road.

Sadly, the occupants were only journalists trying to get ahead of the motorcade.

George Bush, Tony Blair and the 21 cars in their wake had taken a more circuitous route from Mr Blair's home, Myrobella, at Trimdon Colliery, round the back of Sedgefield and into the Dun Cow Inn, avoiding the protestors.

As Mr Blair led Mr Bush into what he described as "my local", there was little to be heard of the protestors' fury 300 yards away.

A man on a megaphone bellowed about wanting "Bush out", but his cries drifted upwards where they were chopped up and drowned out by the blades of the helicopter circling overhead - and the giggling of Spennymoor schoolchildren.

Somehow they had sneaked through the tightest security cordon in the world, which surrounded the most hated man in the world. Somehow they had found a way to shake his hand.

"He's much nicer, much kinder than on the television," they laughed.

And, to be honest, many of the ordinary people of Sedgefield would appear to agree. The people of the Trimdons and of Fishburn, who had come out of their houses to witness the motorcade, were largely friendly towards Mr Bush.

Some had waved little flags, a few had made placards saying: "Welcome to the President", "Good job, George," "Welcome Mr Bush, this lot do not speak for me."

It was only when you reached the centre of the village where the professional protestors were penned - those armed with their globally mass-produced "stop the war" and Socialist Worker posters - that you came upon vocal dissent.

Inside the pub, amid the low beams, the blackboards and the polished glasses swinging from the rack, there was nothing to be heard except bonhomie and good cheer.

"What a nice man, so different from the media image," said Peter Brookes.

"He's a very charming, witty and personable man," said Phil Wilson.

Both men had joined him on the top table for fish and chips and mushy peas, which had gone down very well, along with the company.

After lunch at the Dun Cow Inn, the presidential party moved through an estate and on to Sedgefield Community College, which achieved sports college status earlier this year.

"Edward, pay attention!" shouted football instructor Lee Hogarth. "Come on, Craigy, let's see some skills."

But it is difficult to concentrate on football when standing behind you are the President of the US and the Prime Minister of Britain.

On the new astroturf pitches, which local MP Tony Blair opened a few months ago, the 11 to 13-year-olds were being put through their paces.

The rest of the school was watching them, crammed into classrooms in the four storey-high main block, their noses pressed against the windows, which were steaming up. Above them, on the roof, four police officers scanned the skies.

Mr Bush was desperate to get hold of a ball. Mr Blair engaged him in conversation, asking whether football is growing in America, and Mr Bush tried with an answer but ended up admitting: "I don't really know."

"We do softball in the summer when it gets a bit warmer," chipped in Mr Hogarth, helpfully. "It's a little bit cold..."

"Oh, so it does get warmer, then?" said the President, giving the teacher a hearty slap on the back.

On television, Mr Bush appears to be a squat, stubby sort of chap, but in the flesh he's tall - only an inch or so shorter than Mr Blair, who's a good six-footer - and strong. He walks with a confident Texan swagger, his arms held firm by his side, and he is such good chums with everyone he meets that he's immediately leaning in on top of them.

Perhaps it's this invasion of personal space that worried Mr Blair. Even though he's the host, he seemed diffident. Perhaps he was slightly in awe of the fact that he was leading the US President around his own backyard - at one point he turned to the press corps, put his thumb up and said in the manner of a disbelieving schoolboy: "It's good, isn't it?"

Mr Bush, though, was in control. He was the senior partner. Even though his advisors were willing him not to, he eventually got to pick up a ball. He made a terribly weak attempt to head it like a soccer player, and then pretended to throw it at the photographers.

Later, the party moved inside to sign sweatshirts and sports balls for the schoolchildren.

Immediately, Mr Bush took charge of the children with a loud: "Okay... have you lot got any complaints about the school?"

The children laughed, their nerves gone, and the headteacher Lynne Ackland answered with an emphatic "no".

When it came to giving a few thoughts for the journalists, Mr Blair's voice struggled for a minute or so before he found his stride. As he spoke, Mr Bush's good-humoured eyes scanned the faces of the journalists, winking at those he knew - and some he didn't.

When Mr Bush spoke, Mr Blair studied his face intently. The President was straight into his stride, clasping Mr Blair too closely for comfort, but without a trace of uncertainty or hesitancy in his voice.

"I am fortunate to have a friend like Tony Blair," he finished with a spine-tingling flourish.

"The American people are fortunate to have friends like the British people, who show great courage, determination and a willingness to take on a challenge. And we are challenged by killers, cold-blooded killers, and we will prevail."

Outside, on the way back to the motorcade, the college pupils screamed at him as if he was Robbie Williams. A couple of them were even shedding tears, they are so in love - but beside the crash barrier sits a Swat team in a Range Rover with the engine running. They are dressed in camouflage green, their baggy jumpsuits concealing their weaponry, their goggles already over their eyes.

Because other people do not love the President so much.

THE motorcade pulled up at Myrobella for a final time. The President and the Prime Minister, accompanied by their wives, retraced their steps across the mud and the sheeting.

The US marine, still immaculately turned out, stood beside the doors of Marine One, the President's helicopter. The Blairs and the Bushes said their fond farewells, and the marine snapped to a salute as the Bushes got on board.

He turned smartly and shut the doors with a ceremonial flourish. The Blairs retreated to a safe distance away from the downwash, sheltering behind the President's large black Chevrolet - it's engine still running, just in case.

The Blairs started waving, and the US marine braced himself for the hurricane, knee bent forward to meet the gale, his hand holding on to his white cap.

The downwash drenched him, buffeted him, tore at his clothes, hurling leaves and litter at his face while the Blairs waved madly as the helicopter circled Myrobella and headed for Teesside.

They carried on waving until they thought their guests were out of sight - and then they waved a couple of more times, just in case they could still be seen.

Then they turned, Mr Blair putting his hand on his wife's back and they looked at each other, as if to say: "Aw, that was nice."

Meanwhile, the marine had drawn himself back up to attention, his eyes gazing in front, his hands clasped in their white gloves behind his back.

The President of the United States of America, the most powerful man in the world, had left Trimdon Colliery.