LAST week's announcement of the take-over of Fountains Dairy by Hawes Creamery sent Spectator scurrying to his bookshelves for a slim volume - a very slim volume indeed, an orangey-buff paperback booklet, cost "one shilling".

The Story of Wensleydale Cheese by T C Calvert (the Sunday name of the legend better known as Kit) was published by The Dalesman in 1946 and came, as the inner cover ironically states, "with the compliments of the Kirkby Malzeard Dairy Co Ltd, Ripon."

It remains a fascinating read, running from the sheep-breeding Cistercian monks to the Second World War, when Wensleydale managed to keep the regional flag flying during rationing, even if Ministry of Food rules did bar that staple of the Northern Christmas table, the Wensleydale "small". The pictures show that methods have remained virtually as visitors to the Hawes premises see them from the spectators' gallery today.

Mr Calvert mourned the passing of pickled Wensleydale "accepted by the connoisseur of territorial cheese as the aristocrat of the table". It did not meet Ministry standards and that was, he said, the final blow to farmhouse Wenselydale cheesemaking. Maybe the new union could be celebrated with a return of this brine-steeped cheese, among the many versions now offered.

Mind your feet

SOME weeks ago, bin collection rounds in Darlington were re-organised and householders notified of the new collection days, with the instruction to have rubbish out by 7am.

For most people, that means the night before and, as it was obvious not every street would be dealt with by breakfast-time, most householders leave bins and bags inside their gates. A few weeks of the new rgime show that the advance guard will arrive to drag out and pile up rubbish in the gutter and on the pavement some considerable time before the lorry turns up.

In that interval, dogs may investigate it, householders can find their drives obstructed and, worst of all, those with poor sight may literally fall foul of it.

DJ's revenge

The radio roadshow, the subject of some criticism in last week's column, had its revenge on Spectator on Saturday night.

Struck down by a virus, Spectator was feeling extremely sorry for himself in bed as the fireworks exploded outside. The silver lining was that at least he wouldn't have to suffer "Goughy" and the Century radio roadshow in Darlington South Park's otherwise excellent display. Or so he thought.

As the evening went on it became painfully clear that the sound of the South Park event was being blown two-and-half miles down the road to Hurworth where Spectator was laid up. There truly was no escape.