CRY God for Harry, England and all that, it is St George's Day. Readers may have forgotten, or never known in the first place, or be stopping in to wash their hair.

The English now celebrate St Patrick's Day, a treasonable transference of allegiance for which the Guinness Brewery should solemnly be led to the scaffold. Even the Roman Catholic church relegated George's cult to "local" status - a sort of Third Division (North) among saints - in 1969.

George and the unfortunate dragon, whose part should not be underestimated, deserve very much better.

He was a Palestinian, so the story goes. The dragon was, too - "a local pest," says the Oxford Dictionary of Saints, as if describing the medieval equivalent of Rat Boy.

The dragon, adds the Oxford, poisoned with its breath all who approached it. There are one or two like that in the 5s and 3s League on a Monday night.

Every day it was appeased with two sheep, but when sheep became exhausted - or pretty fed up, at any rate - human sacrifices were drawn by lot.

The king's daughter, awarded democracy's short straw, went to her fate dressed as a bride - until bold Sir George rode up, pierced the poor beast amidships (or somewhere similarly painful) with his lance and led the malodorous monster captive by the princess's girdle.

Another reason for his decline in popularity, incidentally, was that the invention of gunpowder made the lance redundant, though there are few accounts of latter day saints blowing up dragons instead.

Believe in Jesus, said George, and he would rid them forever of the scourge. The king agreed and 15,000 were baptised; as exercises in evangelism go, it was even more successful than the Alpha Course.

George became the patron saint of soldiers, knights, archers and armourers, is also invoked in cases of plague, leprosy and (for some reason) syphilis and may be on the verge of a comeback.

Under the neat, two word headline "George best", the Publican Newspaper reports that pressure is growing to make April 23 a bank holiday. There's not another for at least a week, after all.

England, adds the Publican, celebrates about everyone else's feast except its own. Ever the national treasure, the column seizes the day.

THE last time we were in the George and Dragon at Aysgarth was in the company of Mr Clive Wrest, a retired licensee of those delightful parts. Mr Wrest was riding a bicycle and dressed as Superman, but that's another story.

Run these past two years by Neil and Alison Vaughan, the former 17th Century coaching inn has several representations of the Georgian legend. In one the dragon rather resembles Donald Duck, in another George looks like Asterix the Gaul and in a third like Mr Brian Blessed, playing Captain Hook in pantomime.

The recently revamped inn has no special plans to honour today's occasion, which is a shame, but has much to recommend it, nonetheless.

Aysgarth's half way up Wensleydale, the George and Dragon welcoming. The bar's immaculate, offers three real ales and has a gallery - though not, of course, a rogues' gallery - of locals past and present.

There are also copies (minimum donation, 20p) of the Upper Wensleydale Newsletter in which the local polliss reveals that the only crime "of interest" in the previous two months was that someone stole topping stones from a wall near Hawes.

They do things differently in the countryside.

Food's clearly important, and much above average. Daily changing specials included battered calamari salad with lemon mayonnaise as a starter, a main course of pork escalope with spiced red onion and cider gravy, Cointreau and orange steamed pudding with dark chocolate sauce.

The bar remained empty. Ten other diners included a party of plumbers who spoke endlessly of sumps and skips and silicone sealant. Water on the brain, presumably.

Neil Vaughan, clearly a dab-hand professional, brought a goats' cheese salad with tomatoes and olives to one side of the table, a perfectly blended broccoli and Stilton soup to the other.

We followed from the vegetarian section with a "Chinese pancake" (£9.95). A stir fried duck pancake had been among the starters, some now forgotten pancake on the puddings list.

The Chinese whisper was of "Spring greens", peppers and shallots with a soy sauce. It was different, if not hugely memorable, and the salad rather limp-wristed.

The Boss's seared tuna loin (£10 95) was very sound, she thought, and as pretty as a picture.

The "Bailey's Irish Cream mousse", another Erse first invasion, was notable chiefly for the absence of any discernible spirit.

Children's meals are £3.95; sandwiches, baked potatoes, omelettes and things also available. Not perhaps George medal stuff, but a very pleasant evening, nonetheless.

IN Hudswell, a long village a couple of miles above Richmond, they're much more likely to be flying the flag this morning.

The George and Dragon up there is a terrific pub - homely and unpretentious with real ales and coal fire. We didn't eat.

Above the fire there's a picture of Our Hero barbecuing a chicken over the dragon's flames, on another wall hang several toilet seats - quiz trophies, apparently. The question is, why?

Every April 23, the landlord hangs the flag outside. On several occasions, Englishmen have complained to the council that he didn't have planning permission.

"Even if the council came, St George's Day would be over by the time they got here," he said. Oh to be in England.

THE George and Dragon at Heighington has featured hereabouts before, principally because of Dave Kilpatrick's commitment to constantly changing real ales.

Food's appreciated, too. Folk swear by the corned beef pie, sandwiches are around £2, a mushroom omelette (£4.50) one of a range. "Omelette" is misspelled as usual, however, and apostrophes run amok.

Afterwards we sat on a bench in the Spring sunshine, awaiting the bus and watching Darlington council's gardeners cut a dash on the village green.

Maybe we just feel asleep; maybe the twenty to two just didn't come. It was, either way, an idyllic English afternoon.

MICHAEL Patterson at the Daleside Arms in Croxdale, near Spennymoor, has been looking for ages for ales with which to mark a celebration of all things English this week.

He's come up with Triple Screw from Titanic and Dutton's Village Bike, about which further comment is perhaps inadvisable. There'll also be Butcombe Gold and Dr Duncan's Elixir from Cain's Brewery in Liverpool.

They'll help refresh his English Pub Week - open from 3pm today; folk club but no food tonight.

DRAGON jokes being in short supply, the bairns wondered if we knew what you get if you cross a parrot with a soldier.

A parrot trooper, of course.