THE Reverend Gentleman is off on a sabbatical, not a once-every-seven-years job as might biblically be suggested, but once in a lifetime, and then only for the exceptionally fortunate.

For what may have been the year's last Breakfast Club meeting, therefore, something a bit special seemed in order and not the twopence ha'penny teashop which - humbly, befitting his calling - he had proposed.

Last Monday morning we went instead to Clow-Beck House, near Croft-on-Tees, taken aback to discover the Gentleman dressed not only in dog collar and bible black - his garb on these early morning occasions has been known to resemble a trucker several bricks short of a load - but carrying beneath his arm what appeared to be the Good Book itself.

It proved to be his personal organiser. A personal organiser, some would say, is the New English Bible, anyway.

Clow-Beck House has won more awards in the past year than has Billy Elliott, including the English Tourist Board accolade for the country's best small hotel. Among its other distinctions is that it's open only to residents, or to their friends and colleagues.

We were so anxious to experience it, however, that all attempts at anonymity were waived, the first time the column has reported from an eating place not normally open to the public since bread and scrape in Durham prison.

Set scenically near the river that forms the boundary between Durham and North Yorkshire - Clow Beck is a tributary - it's owned by David and Heather Armstrong. Until lean times suggested diversification, he was an intensive pig farmer. Now the pig tale is over - "I couldn't afford to lose any more money" - though arable interests remain.

The hotel has elegantly expanded, the gardens are verdant - there's a fort and a giant chess set, too - the food is all bought locally, meat from Northallerton, fish from Morrison's. "As a small businessman it almost hurts me to admit it," says David, "but you just can't beat Morrison's fish counter."

It was greatly relaxing, possible almost to suspend reality and to believe that we, too, were on holiday and not just half an hour late for the ranch. The conversation turned to Aunty Bettys - or Aunties Betty, whichever is the plural. It's possible, in either case, everyone in the world may have one.

David cooked, Heather greeted cheerfully. A large jug of freshly squeezed orange juice was already on the table. After that, it may be better simply to list the options.

Six or seven cereal jars, including muesli, each bowl offered with fresh strawberries; grapefruit segments, yoghurt, fresh melon, porridge - "David's special porridge" - home made white bread, home made fruit bread, Aunty Betty's croissants, bowl of fresh fruit, orange, apple, cranberry or grapefruit juice.

That's for starters.

To follow? A full English, of which John Bull himself would be proud, poached, scrambled or boiled eggs, sundry additions, smoked mackerel or kippers.

Then? Home made nut and apricot bread, granary toast, home made jams and three fruit marmalade, chocolate spread, Marmite and probably (should anyone ask) Heinz sandwich spread an' all.

To drink? Darjeeling, English breakfast, Earl Grey, Yorkshire or loose leaf decaff; peppermint, camomile, blackcurrant, ginseng, vanilla, elderflower or strawberry and rose tea; ground, Rombouts or instant coffee; milk or ("always available") hot water.

Three of us had the full works, the eggs as sunny as ever greeted an August morning, fried bread fabulous, mushrooms mellifluous, black pudding to make an ex-pig farmer properly proud and the rest of it pretty good, too.

Coffee pot followed coffee pot, pleasure upon pleasure. The Gentleman's send-off cost £12.50 a head; Monday morning felt pretty good, nonetheless.

It is not now possible to recall where the sabbatical will take him, only to suppose that on some foreign field he will some day lie back and think of England, and of the sumptuous wonders of her breakfast.

l Clow-Beck House, Croft-on-Tees near Darlington (01325) 721075. Bed and breakfast £47 per person, dinner around £40 for two, without wine.

MURTON is a no-frills sort of place, and Caf - it bore no other identification - may not be considered frill a minute, either.

It was Saturday, 9am. On another table, a young gentleman was discussing the previous evening's ructions with Durham constabulary before bidding his amorosa join him in greeting the day. "Come on you fat pig," he said.

On another table, three elderly ladies were discussing the meaning of life, and of the alternative, whilst waiting (possibly) for the prize bingo to open. "Eeeh," said one, "it must be awful being dead. I mean it's bad enough being bad, but being dead..."

We ordered a piping hot, very enjoyable egg and bacon roll (£1.20), accepted the offer of butter on the bread but declined the salt. You have to look after your health, after all. It must be awful being dead.

WITH only the Daily Telegraph for company, we lunched at Chambers "Family" Restaurant in Darlington, opposite where the silver-screened Odeon used to be.

It's remarkably cheap - cheerful too, but for the chap hollering into his mobile telephone about hypothetical legal situations. The trouble with hypothetical legal situations is that the real thing is seldom far behind.

Home made vegetable soup (£1.30) was so thick it was accompanied by fork and spoon, gammon salad (£2.99, the lot) came with carefully cooked potatoes in their skins, coleslaw, greenery, scallions and little side dishes of chutney, salad cream and beetroot, though how so magnificent a vegetable as beetroot should be marginalised can only be imagined.

With a can of Pepsi, the bill reached £4.79. Next time we might take the family.

...and finally, the bairns wondered if we knew why you're never alone with a banana.

Because they go around in bunches.

Published: Tuesday, August 28, 2001