With his hat fascination and nickname of Mr Bean, Paul Jackson is causing a stir at the Kirk.

ROMALDKIRK had put the flags out, though probably not for the column's arrival. In that delightful Teesdale village, there were just two days to the parish carnival.

St Romald's church - he was a tenth century hermit - is reckoned the Cathedral of the Dales, the Rose and Crown no less lauded. More awards than the austere Romald may ever have had hot dinners.

The village's other pub, the Kirk, has had songs of praise, too. The 2003 Good Pub Guide reckons it a cosy and very friendly family run local with a wide choice of good value food; the Good Beer Guide talks of excellent home cooked food from a labyrinthine kitchen area.

All that was two landlords ago. The admirable Ros and Dennis Frampton left last October, though Dennis's name remains above the front door of the listed 18th century building. They were followed for a few months by a couple from Darlington and in February this year by Paul and Lindsay Jackson.

It is no less cosy, no less informal or relaxing and - not least because everyone seems to be known by their first name, probably even the chap who comes to read the electricity meter - could hardly be more welcoming. The scope and range of the menu has, for the moment, substantially been reduced, however.

Though the Kirk also houses the village post office - "It's quiet, I get excited if I sell a stamp," said Paul - none of his predecessors may have worn as many hats as he does.

He collects them; there's probably a word for it. He wears a Frankie Vaughan number behind the bar, owns a set of coloured bowlers, a flotilla of naval headgear, a milliners' row of get-ahead alternatives.

Paul, Leeds lad originally, spent his life in clothing manufacturing; Lindsey was a nurse. It's their first pub, a chance discovery, and though already strong on real ale and good, straightforward food, they admit to still finding their feet.

Beers included choices from Big Lamp, Black Sheep, the Village Brewer and Timothy Taylor's - three of Timmy Taylor's on special offer at £1.50 last weekend - and thus almost as much choice as on the food menu.

There were no starters, the home made soup being unavailable, and no puddings. What he has, he knows how to sell - the meat, proclaimed Paul, was from the celebrated Peat's in Barnard Castle, the trout caught nearby by a pensioner who lives in the village.

The Boss was tickled by the trout, served with decent chips and salad for just £4.95; we had an excellent sirloin steak with a bowl of chips, mushrooms, tomatoes, carrots and things now forgotten for £8.75.

It was also accompanied by a dish of English mustard, the only sort, and by several visits to the table by the garrulous owner - sometimes at the expense of clearing the tables or washing the glasses.

He answers to Mr Bean, apparently, perhaps because of a perceived physical resemblance, perhaps because of his talkativeness, perhaps because he appears accident prone.

Having fallen over the lawn mower - it really is labyrinthine out the back - he got up and banged his head.

Visitors clearly appreciate the pub, and may do so even more when work on the kitchens is completed later this year. There are games, books and magazines; on a green and pleasant evening, the tape at one point played Jerusalem.

Was it possible, we wondered homeward, for a pub landlord to be too friendly? Like so much else at the Kirk, it was a talking point, anyway.

EARLY Saturday evening, we had a couple of pints in the multi-award winning Ship at Middlestone Village near Bishop Auckland - six hand pumps, including the wonderfully refreshing White Velvet from Durham Brewery and a bonus when the wedding party upstairs decides that they've seriously over-estimated and sends half a wedding breakfast down to the appreciative bar lads. "By heck," says a new arrival, eyeing the overflowing tables, "you must have had a hell of a darts night in here."

SEVERAL weeks out of brewing action due to an horrific arm injury - an accident with a knife - Paul Conroy at the ever backable Grey Horse in Consett will again be manning the pumps for this weekend's bank holiday beer festival. With help from his brother-in-law, Paul's including eight of his own Derwentrose beers among the 32 that will be available - 16 at any time - from Saturday to Monday. Others include several summer ales and a couple from New York, though that's Mordue's Brewery in the village of that name near North Shields.

Derwentrose has been brewing six years and expect to sell their 100,000th pint - someone's counting - over the weekend. Paul still has to write left handed, though.

Clearly a good weekend coming up, there's also a beer festival - Friday to Monday - at the Crown in Manfield, a few miles south west of Darlington. Landlord Peter Hinds promises up to 20 real ales, real cider, curry night on Friday, bring-your-own barbecue on Saturday evening and hot beef and pork rolls on Sunday lunchtime.

They open from 5.30pm on Friday and all day thereafter, live music, as they say, to be announced.

AQUICK one (honest) at the Grand in Bishop Auckland elicits plans for another beer festival there - September 25-28 - and with a possibly episcopal theme.

Bishops Finger, Bishops Farewell, Bishop Ridley's Ale and possibly even Archbishop Lee's Ruby Ale - from the North Yorkshire brewery at Pinchtinthorpe Hall, near Guisborough - come to mind.

With true missionary zeal, Grand lad Simon Higginson continues to try to bring the real ale gospel to those heathen territories. "It's slow work," he says, "but I'm convinced they're seeing the light."

THE bar on Newcastle Central Station has had one of its periodic refurbishings. It's now known as Hero's - an interesting place for the apostrophe - with a menu that includes tea and toast (£2.20), breakfast (£3.90) and six-and-a-half inch Yorkshire puddings, as precise as a standard gauge ruler.

A sausage, egg and bacon bap was £2.60 and was perfectly OK. A pint of Bass was £2.40 and at that price would never have been followed by a second.

...and finally, the bairns wondered if we knew what you call a chief sausage.

A head banger, of course.

Published: 19/08/2003