Eternal question: what should a minister of religion look like? Ready reverend, pious eyed, or what? We ponder it because we lunched two Saturdays ago with the Rev Leo Osborn - chairman of the Newcastle district of the Methodist Church, chaplain to the Albany Northern League, Aston Villa apostle and (unlike the curate's) a jolly good egg.

It was the Croxdale Inn, enthusiastically recommended by Ros and Ken Leybourne, of whom more shortly. Leo was in mufti - Arabic term originally - a minister without portfolio, as it were.

Plain clothes notwithstanding, he was dog collared half way through his scampi by an acquaintance who introduced him to her mother by his full, presbyterial, title.

"Well," said the old lady, "he doesn't look very much like a reverend to me."

There's a photograph somewhere kicking round the cloisters: readers must judge for themselves how appropriately Leo carries his cross.

Croxdale's between Durham and Spennymoor; Ros and Ken look in on return visits from the Freeman Hospital to their home in Darlington. "A superb choice of English and international dishes individually cooked to order," they wrote and clearly aren't alone in their views. That evening, the new conservatory restaurant, 100-odd seats, was booked solid.

The pub's been owned since 1985 by Geoff and Christine Hamilton, who at various times have also had the Shafto Arms at Whitworth Hall and the Gretna Green at Aycliffe while managers ran the Croxdale.

The only other time it featured hereabouts was when someone in the domino team picked up all seven doubles in one hand, odds computed at around 1,100,000-1.

Now the Hamiltons are back, though later this year their son Peter will take over the business when they retire to Cyprus, where Geoff already owns several luxury villas.

"The Cypriots have an enormous passion for their food and scarcely any conversation occurs without being accompanied by coffee, beer or brandy," says the brochure.

Cyprus, in truth, may be one of the few countries in the world not represented on the menu or the specials boards, though lunchtime and early evening specials major on favourite English dishes.

We began with dim sum with a couple of pleasant dips, Leo with jalopos - chilli jalapeno peppers with cream cheese and served with guacamole, salsa and sour cream. He considered them very good.

The scampi were fine, too, though he is also a man who eats scampi fries (which to others represent the work of the devil). The column's spicy nachos (with chips and salad and things) were Tex-Mex excellent.

The column drank draught Bass, the minister Coke (though he prefers ginger beer). A pleasant lunch was made complete when Middlesbrough scored twice in the last five minutes against Manchester United and the television in the bar zoomed in on the ruminative jowls of poor Sir Alex Ferguson.

Unable to stay for pudding, the Northern League chaplain dashed off to watch Durham City's latest victory in the Carlsberg FA Vase. There were appearances to keep up, after all.

l Croxdale Inn, Front St, Croxdale (01388 815727). Special lunch dishes £3.95, two meals for £6 between 5-7pm. No problem for the disabled.

Among the little irritations of the Post Office, or whatever these days it is called, is the habit of dropping a card through the letter box to announce a postage due package awaits collection on payment of 56p, or whatever. Those who expect to send half an elephant covered by the modern equivalent of a twopence ha'penny stamp are, it should be conceded, no less irksome.

The really annoying bit, however, is that not only are we generally at home when the postman doesn't knock but are visibly at home, girding loins over another morning coffee before daily labours are pursued.

That he doesn't demand his pound of excess flesh is because it is against the rules, perhaps because rural postmen might be mugged for 56p, perhaps because no one darns their pockets.

Our nearest main Post Office is in Richmond: two birds, we decided on a bite to eat whilst there.

Lunch was at Barker's fish and chip restaurant in the Market Place, the attractive upstairs room, air conditioned and quite possibly sound proofed, since no sound of youthful exuberance escaped from the shop below. (Richmond may have the world's biggest crocodile, almost a mile from school to town.)

Upstairs all remained quiet, the peace disturbed only by a three-year-old threatening to shoot his father (and who may have been below the age of criminal responsibility) and by a couple of blokes dressed like undertakers but who appeared to be selling dripping.

It's very good. Home-made cheese and broccoli soup (£1.95) came with half a loaf, large cod and chips (£5.95) had very good batter and The Boss thought her lemon sole cooked perfectly.

Monday to Wednesday, 11am-7pm, fish, chips and peas, tea, bread and butter is £4.95 the lot. Steamed fish on request. Unlike the Post Ofice, open seven days.

The suggestion in last week's column that Newcastle International Airport's catering operation was on automatic pilot - a distinctly economy class exercise - elicited echoes from Ben Christon in Thirsk and some rear gunnery from the aviators.

Ben's flight to Gran Canaria was grounded because of a technical fault, all 250 passengers decanted with food and drink vouchers to be redeemed in the departure lounge.

Only one man served food, keen to tell everyone that he should have been home an hour since and that it wasn't his proper job, anyway.

"I have to agree there," says Ben. "I think he was a brickie."

A woman redeemed the vouchers, regretted there was no change and also took pleasure in reminding everyone she should have been home ages since.

They were delayed for seven hours. "Thankfully," says Ben, "not everyone was fed."

The airport PR lady rang, was updated, promised a statement. It arrived after two days, talked of how the airport was committed to improving customer service and how comments and suggestions were welcome.

Since the terminal extension opened, the statement added, customer experiences - including catering - had "significantly improved" though there was scope for further development.

Nothing addressed the specific gripes of the column or of Ben Christon. There may be more of the plane man's guide shortly.

So often seemingly by-passed, though the A66 almost crosses the doorstep, the Bowes Moor Hotel on the Durham/Cumbria border is again on the market. Trade is put at 70 per cent food, 20 per cent wet sales and 10 per cent accommodation, turnover at £60,000 a year. They're asking £175,000.

The battle over its preservation fought and lost, the Duke of Wellington at Nevilles Cross, Durham, re-opens tomorrow as an Ember Inn, the 122nd so branded.

Though hundreds signed "Nowt wrong, don't fix it" petitions - Leave Welly alone, perhaps - Ember have eviscerated the dear old place regardless.

"The new look Duke of Wellington is what local pubs are about, only better," says the PR company.

Opening day gimmicks include a free bottle of wine to everyone who can prove they live at number 122 and a voucher for 100 free pints for the 122nd person through the door.

Ashes to ashes, an Ember day report very shortly.

.and finally, the bairns wondered if we knew what you get if you cross a nun and a chicken.

A pecking order.

Published: Tuesday, February 5, 2002