COLLECTIVELY, like so many lard-brained lemmings, the Sunday sports writers two weeks ago threw themselves over the editorial edge.

Someone had whispered - bellowed, rather - that Steve McClaren, manager of Middlesbrough Football Club, was "almost certain" to be Leeds United's next manager instead.

Sycophantic profiles were hurriedly prepared, paths made straight, past differences diminished. The following morning, Leeds not only announced the appointment of Terry Venables, not only said they'd never spoken to Steve McClaren but gave the impression that for all anyone at Elland Road knew, he could have had a candy floss stall on the end of Dunoon pier.

The Sunday Times, broader sheets to spread, even reported that though he lived in the "fashionable market town" of Yarm, McClaren forewent its nubile charms to take his wife and three sons to the Tawny Owl - "a quiet pub near Darlington."

"A hoot," wrote the reader who sent in the cutting, though whether he meant the pub or the crystal balls-up, we aren't quite sure.

Formerly the Bit and Bridle, now a Vintage Inn, the Tawny Owl is on the country road to Neasham, not a quarter of a mile from the Georgereynoldsdome, or whatever Darlington FC's new stadium will finally be called.

Perhaps Mr McClaren nips down there for a soothing shandy after talks, word in edgeways, with George. Perhaps someone should leak it to the Sundays.

Vintage Inns, almost all named after wildlife, pride themselves on being traditional. Dated, they'd probably be 1960s - possibly Grove Family, a decade earlier - though the licensed trade fetish for chalk is more recent.

On this day, it said on a beam, Louis Armstrong was born 100 years ago and the first London bus service ran in 1829. It was Tuesday lunchtime; we'd read that in one of the Sundays, too.

We sat, alone, in the no-smoking end. A group of four or five elderly women sat around a nearby table, a group of four or five elderly men on the one next to that.

We also couldn't decide if they'd come together and fallen out, or whether it was a meeting of the most spectacularly unsuccessful singles' club in history. They were talking, at any rate, about the Echo's poetry page.

Apparently we'd carried something in which mother-in-law had rhymed (more or less) with being washed up on the shore. Les Dawson would have been impressed.

The food's from a standard menu - "traditional home-style British cooking" it said - ordered at the bar in exchange for a wooden spoon with a number on it.

Ours was number 60. Perhaps the other folk were the over 60s club.

The summer menu had two swallows on the cover and dishes like "Jubilee" beef wellington (£12.50), chicken, leek and ham pie (£6.50) and baked sea bass with vine cherry tomatoes (£9.95) inside.

We started with ham, mushroom and cheddar melt (£3.50), the sort of thing a hungry bachelor might knock up for his tea and perfectly OK within that limited expectation.

Asparagus, lemon and thyme risotto - £5.95, least expensive main course on the list - was more disappointing. The risotto was so soggy it could have been left out in the rain all night, the eight "roast vine cherry tomatoes" which topped it hadn't just withered on the vine, they'd been scadded to death (as they say in Sunderland) on it.

It's a very big pub with exceptionally cheerful staff and draught Bass a little less user friendly. Whilst the Sunday Times was right about it being quiet, that's almost certain to change on weekday lunchtimes now that the school holidays are here.

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INCORRIGIBLY thematic, we'd also contemplated a bite at the Cat and Bagpipes in East Harlsey, in order to proffer a headline about the Owl and the Pussy Cat.

Everyone knows about the owl and the pussy cat who went to sea in a beautiful pea green boat. A lady who works here was even at a wedding in Darlington the other day where it replaced, or at least supplemented, the bible reading. Perhaps they'd tarried too long.

East Harlsey is a few miles north-east of Northallerton, a very small village with a very big pub which resembled a rather grand village hall. There was also a stone bus shelter - there may even be a bus - and a charming, smartly turned out young lady who acted as car park attendant. It was cricket club night, she said.

Cricketers were already bowling up, exchanging little chitties - like Tommy tickets - for meals. Since there was a danger of being piggy in the middle - as, of course, was the case in the Owl and the Pussy Cat - we had a pint of Landlord (£2.10) and upped sticks.

BY then it was 8.30pm, Wednesday evening, and since the only other feline pub which came to mind was The Cat at Berwick-upon-Tweed, it was time for a hasty re-think on the theme ticket.

The Shorthorn is at Appleton Wiske, five or six miles to the north. Would the bull at least have a ring in the end of its nose? It hadn't.

It's another extremely spacious pub, and was also well filled. There were two big parties in, said the waitress, and at least one appeared to be of demob happy primary school teachers.

Other than the ground down look come end of term, it's hard to say what makes junior school teachers so distinctive. Class of their own, anyway.

There's a large no-smoking restaurant, a connecting bar at the front and an extremely attractive little lounge to one side. There was a bust of Beethoven, a copy of The Laughing Cavalier, prints of French impressionists and of steam omnibuses. (Appleton Wiske's vicar collects model buses, would probably have known about the one in London on this day in 1829.)

The tables were bare wood, the chairs sturdy, the menu much the sort of thing that pubs served 30 years ago - and nothing, of course, wrong with that.

In short, it was Vintage vintage.

The menu also announced that at busy times there might be a wait of up to an hour and that, since sharing was forbidden, extra cutlery wouldn't be issued.

The duck (£11.95) with apple and calvados sauce, one of several possible accompaniments, was the best bird in ages, crisply roasted and full of flavour. Jointly and severally, as they in the legal profession, the sauce tasted of both advertised ingredients.

The Boss's trout stuffed with mussels - we had imperiously refused her permission to have sea bass yet again - was also sharp and succulent, save for one curious thing.

The trout swam in butter; the duck had getting on half a pound perched on its back, like a natal duckling trying to hitch a lift.

Though we tried to teach it its place, the butter was inexorable, dripping inimically as if through some pernicious cannula. If they must lay it on so thick, they might at least enquire who wants the stuff.

The night worked out fine, nonetheless - meals, entirely reasonably, within 35 minutes, chips crisp and firm, vegetables fine - the Owl and the Pussy Cat (and other four legged friends.)

...so finally, the bairns wondered if we knew what the two lovesick owls said when it started raining.

Two-wet-to-woo....