CERTIFIED villain, we missed the paper's Local Heroes awards on Thursday evening because of a long standing speaking engagement in Swaledale. It offered a unique chance to tell the all-time favourite story of the cow in the ditch at Grinton.

The Melbecks Society, an excellent audience, meet in the Village Institute at Low Row, three miles up the dale from Reeth but covered (of course) by Reeth fire brigade.

National strike notwithstanding, the part-time fire fighters were on a call as we headed westward - pumping flood water, probably - though the incident is unlikely to have proved as memorable as when Reeth brigade was called to the cow in the ditch or the goat up the tree.

We've told the double ditch story previously, and won't again. It's filed under "Friendly fire" alongside the night that the Over 60s meeting was disrupted to tackle the blaze in the Cosy Cinema at Middleton-in-Teesdale and the curious story of the over-ripe tomatoes in the brigade watch room at Bishop Auckland.

Unfortunately, however, the account of how we came to be riding on the leading tender to a Good Friday fire in Darlington is still covered by the 30 year rule. Only five to go.

EVEN on so stormy a night as last Thursday, Swaledale remains serene. Its accent, however, is almost unrecognisable.

The cherished local dialect seems nearly to have vanished, replaced by a strain which may best be called Oftcumden.

In the Punch Bowl afterwards, firelit and warm welcoming, accents could be discerned from at least five different parts of the kingdom - Wales, Scotland, London, Lancashire and something which appeared to have blown in with a Wolverhampton wanderer.

Among the relative newcomers was a pleasant couple who loved the dale but couldn't work there. She commuted daily to Durham, he to Castleford, in the West Riding.

It is to be hoped that all are made to feel greatly at home up in Melbecks country. Little wonder, however, that such fears exist for the economy and the integrity of the dales.

AMONG those who were at the Local Heroes awards was Century Radio presenter Paul Gough, apparently known as Goffy.

Since he seems to be in the Echo even more than I do, the lad may need no further introduction.

We bumped into him the following evening at Sedgefield Cricket Club's annual dinner, an occasion on which the well-paid speaker was former England batsman Chris Broad.

Until corrected by hand, the menu had spelt his name as Board. Phonetically, at least, it described his audience perfectly.

Goffy, however, remains full of enthusiasm, of a willingness to help local organisations without thought of financial reward and of the ability to make a bright-eyed fist of 6am radio when he's been a Local Hero until four hours earlier.

For reasons too involved to enter upon, we have in the office a life-size cardboard cut-out of the gentleman. It is free - sale of the Century, it might be said - to any organisation or individual suggesting a sound reason for wanting it.

It is unlikely, however, to fit into a stocking.

THOUGH his name bears a strong whiff of Welshness, Ron Davies-Evans was born in Darlington and remains there. We spent part of Saturday evening writing the foreword for his new book - the fourth, so perhaps unsurprisingly called Further Reflections.

Ron, a former Bomber Command officer, is 81 and still fighting fit. He's also a Methodist local preacher, was a linesman in the 1960 FA Amateur Cup final at Wembley and remains a Middlesbrough FC season ticket holder.

The previous books have raised almost £6,000 for local charities, and all income from this one will go towards a special digital camera in the opthalmic unit at Darlington Memorial Hospital. In the case of the foreword writer, therefore, it may be described as the myopic leading the myopic.

Ron's skill is to combine humour and heaven, the sublime and the rumbustious. Most, he suggests, drink from the fountain of knowledge; others merely gargle.

ON Sunday evening to Ripon Cathedral, slightly late on church parade because of a three mile tailback on the A1 north of Leeming Bar.

Traffic already at a standstill, we were warned that queues were possible. A mile and 20 minutes further on, "possible delays" were foretold.

A mile before Leeming, motorists travelling at the approximate speed of a snail in a sack race, were informed that the maximum speed was 50mph.

It is of such things that the patience of a saint is honed. The author of the At Your Service column - more on Saturday - has none of it.

Still with matters ecclesiastical, a call from A Reader (Great Ayton) draws attention to a mistake in a front page story in last Thursday's Teesside edition of the Echo.

Reporting a welcome Church of England decision not to allow clergy to dress down when taking services, we said that priests must presently wear a surplice or orb.

The word is alb, a long white vestment. An orb is a round thing, often atop a crown.

Two days later, The Times published a letter from the Rev David Ashforth in Preston-under-Scar, near Leyburn, pointing out exactly the same clerical error in one of that paper's leaders.

"I have often celebrated Holy Communion wearing an alb, but never an orb. Any attempt to do so would surely have had the clergy rolling in the aisles."

Great minds on the blink alike.

THE Times has also been running a correspondence about Mischief Night, not to be confused with guising or souling and certainly not with trick or treat.

Mischief Night, most familiar in naughty North Yorkshire and unheard of north of the Tees, falls on the eve of Guy Fawkes - a poor excuse for nicking a man's rocket, as Ebenezer Scrooge almost said of Christmas.

Though anything goes, it's usually not far. Gates are for some reason a favourite target. Another letter from a former North Riding resident last Saturday recalled that as a youngster, the writer was caught by the vicar in the act of removing the churchyard gate from its hinges.

"With Jeeves-like inspiration I explained that I had found the gate already off its hinges and was trying to replace it. I was given sixpence.

"If you are still with us Mr Beswick, I confess."

The reverend gentleman is not Canon Gary Beswick, model bus collecting Vicar of Great Smeaton and other rural parishes between Darlington and Northallerton, but may well be Canon Walter Beswick, a priest in the York and Malton areas from 1948-85. He is owed a tanner, plus interest.

ABOUT three days after last week's column recalled Little Plum ("Your Redskin Chum"), the Beano announced that he, Chiefy and Treaclefoot are to return after a 16 year absence. "It might be self-indulgent, but we're sure he'll be very popular," said Beano editor Euan Kerr. Um.

...and finally, back to Ron Davies-Evans's little book and to his definition of a friend - "someone who knows all about you, but likes you, anyway." Among friends, it is most earnestly to be hoped, the column returns next Wednesday.

Published: 20/11/2002