After facing extinction, The White Heifer in Scorton has been revived - and now does a fine line in square meals.

DAVID Armstrong led his last service two Sundays ago after 41 years as a Methodist local preacher, and may thus be a little surprised to find himself holding forth in the Eating Owt column.

He had delivered 1,878 sermons, most recently on the Teesdale circuit. More than half the chapels had since closed - though not, of course, as the result of a visit from the admirable Mr Armstrong.

Country pub worshippers may know the empty feeling. While pubs and churches may not always be kindred spirits, they call last orders commensurately.

Take the area around Scorton, in North Yorkshire, where perchance we found ourselves after writing David's valediction - and where, it should be added, the village Methodist church still prospers.

A decade ago there were five pubs within two miles. The St Cuthbert's Inn, the Arden Arms and the Royal are gone, the Farmers Arms set to plough a lone furrow but for an unexpected New Year's resolution - revolution, perhaps - at the White Heifer.

The Heifer closed after seeing in the year 2000, the intention to delicense it. Pauline Billau, Scorton born, talked of saving the tavern, and the tradition.

"I didn't even particularly like pubs. It just seemed such a shame that another one was going to go," says Pauline.

She was in newspapers, though not this one; Adrian, one of her sons, was in Australia. Nigel, another son, flew long haul with BA, still does. They bought it in April 2000 ("absolutely minging by then"), reopened a month later, began to spread the gospel.

We arrived at 1.30pm, the fourth day of the fourth Test match uppermost in many minds.

Adrian, who'd come back to help build the business and does it with charm, supposed the score to be five-310 and had to be reminded of the error of his ways. In England, runs come first, especially against the Aussies.

Scorton is east of Richmond, best known for its annual Silver Arrow archery contest, its "table top" village green - one of only two in England - and for the Hospitaller Order of St John of God. There's also an annual outbreak of jollity called the Scorton Feast; this was another.

The pub is wholly refurbished, sort of minimalist meets Mediterranean, the restaurant brasserie style. We sat beneath a lamp with basketwork palm leaves - had they been metal, they could have been brazzened frond - and were impressed before eating so much as a morsel.

The Boss had asked in the bar for a jug of tap water to be left on the table. The glasses contained both ice and lime.

The menu combined modern British cooking with traditional Sunday lunch, the initials WH embossed so prominently on the front that you wondered where Smith might be.

It could be faulted only on its use of English, the proffered "Pork sausage's sat on an apple and sage mash" effecting a grammatical double whammy and prompting pre-prandial debate on the use of the word "sat" in which several readers are likely to join.

The Boss supposed that it was the imperfect tense. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn't very clever. Adrian, who held up his hands, also has a black Mini Cooper with the registration H18FER. "It was the nearest I could get," he pleaded.

At any rate, the leek and Caerphilly sausage, one of two vegetarian items on the Sunday lunch menu, was sat similarly only with a cranberry and port sauce.

The meal was very good indeed, service attentive, entertainment value - young Adie is a bit of a showman - quite high. At the end of each course we nipped out to the car to check the cricket score.

Regularly updated, a woman on the next table sent messages to her husband, in Amsterdam - texting the sub-text, as it were.

The Boss had started with crumbed mild jalapenos with a garlic dip, followed by a "proper" fish pie with lots of salmon, the square meal attractively and imaginatively presented on square plates. Everything's square, even the cups; the Heifer's square squared.

Other starters included crispy coated goats' cheese with a raspberry coulis, cracked black pepper potato skins with a choice of dip and coated king prawns with a sweet chilli sauce.

We'd begun with anti pasto, from a top notch delicatessen, followed by nicely tender roast lamb with a mint, honey and rosemary glaze (£7). No matter that the glaze may have been a touch too sweet, the Yorkshire pudding was light and the vegetables (broccoli, cauliflower cheese, carrots, roast and creamed potatoes) admirable.

We finished, spoon apiece, with a square bowl of home made amaretto, fruits of the forest and chocolate ice creams which the lady considered the best she'd ever tasted.

With good, refilled, coffee, a couple of pints of Black Sheep and a bottle of mineral water, the bill just reached £40.

As they may almost say on the cricket field, Scorton bowled. As they may almost say in Methodism, there's corn in Egypt yet.

* The White Heifer, Scorton, near Richmond (01748) 811357. Open Monday-Saturday from 5pm and all day Sunday. Thursday evening specials, £12 for two courses. No problem for the disabled.

Darlington CAMRA's newsletter reports that 26 pubs a month close across Britain - in Darlington alone, housing developers are eyeing the White Horse, contentiously, and the Forge Tavern on Albert Hill. CAMRA has launched an objection to that one, too.

The better news it that Wolverhampton and Dudley plan a pub on the new West Park estate on the town's northern hem. Coincidentally, it's provisional name is "The White Heifer That Travelled" though not, it is to be hoped, from Scorton.

The name, adds CAMRA, is "somewhat ponderous".

LAST of the summer wine, perhaps, a very long lunch last Tuesday in the garden of the 15th century Cover Bridge Inn at East Witton, near Middleham in North Yorkshire. The food may be average, though they love to boast that the ham and eggs have been seen on TV, but the setting's idyllic, the pub full of interest and half a dozen well kept real ales include an excellent pint of Timothy Taylor's Landlord. As they may also say on the cricket field, worth a Cover drive before autumn.

RECENT mention of cocktails - there's Pit Pony and Coal Scuttle at Ashington Football Club, Sex On The Beach most other places - prompts a postcard from Tom Purvis in Sunderland. "The best place for sex on the beach used to be Blackhall Rocks," he writes. "The locals used them to carry the sea coal home."

...and finally, the bairns wondered if we knew what's yellow and flashes.

A banana with a loose connection.

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