The elder bairn has flown the nest at last. He is living in what used to be known as sin but these days answers to Leeds. The two may indeed by synonymous.

His bedroom hadn't so much to be cleared out as archaeologically excavated. The Time Team could have made a new series there, the British Museum is sending a grey bearded delegation.

When last he'd tidied it, Thomas the Tank Engine was but a twinkle in the Fat Controller's eye and Postman Pat could have been had for a sixpenny stamp.

Job finally done, all-clear sounded, we took them both for a send-off dinner at the Shoulder of Mutton at Kirby Hill, about which several readers have recently enthused.

Kirby Hill's between Richmond and the A66, westward from Scotch Corner. We'd first eaten there about 25 years ago, on one of those not infrequent occasions when Mr George Reynolds had been delivered from the insatiable jaws of British justice - that is to say he'd got off - and insisted on purring out into the sticks in GR4, his Roller.

While GR now contemplates that you can't win them all, not even with the inestimable assistance of Mr David Robson QC, the pub has been taken over by Mike Yates and Toni Bennett - they're married but, like other single minded women, she keeps her maiden name - and offers a thoroughly liberating experience.

It's an exceptional country pub, with top class food.

It was a crisp, clear Wednesday evening. In daylight the views must be wonderful. Locals strolled up in shirt sleeves. Cold Shoulder? Not here.

A coal fire burned in the grate, the staff just as warmly welcoming. Four real ales included Daleside, Black Sheep and the exceptional Deuchars' IPA, champion ale of Great Britain a couple of years back. They offered a little taster glass; nice idea.

Main course bar meals are around £8. 50, the restaurant a bit more expensive. We ate in the posh end, home from leaving home. The lad seemed a bit apprehensive; the world may be even wider than the view from the Shoulder of Mutton car park.

Once, of course, he and his brother were Eating Owt column regulars. To the elder bairn when aged seven is attributed the immortal quote: "Do we HAVE to talk about this meal or can we just get on and eat it?"

He began with something en chemise, which was a pancake with garlic mushrooms and things, followed by chicken with Roquefort cheese - no longer much of a red meat man since a vacation job in the pie factory.

"Fantastic," he said, three syllables praise indeed. The usual approbation is "Beaut."

Stacey (for she is the likely lady) didn't have a starter at all. Nor a pudding. Lovely lass, she doesn't eat enough to feed an anorexic spuggie. The lad, dad's lad, wouldn't die of starvation if he didn't eat for a month.

So dad began with the mushroom and leek soup with warm garlic bread. On the side of the bowl were delicious little shards of crisped roast parsnip and, perhaps to keep them in place, a little tump of mashed potato.

It was all very well, but a Taylor's pie on the side would have been even better. The soup was slightly lukewarm but otherwise wonderfully flavoured.

Since it was the only dish which included black pudding, we followed with venison in a lovely red wine sauce, accompanied by some rich and musky mushrooms, a side dish of carefully cooked vegetables and another of roast potatoes. Here and elsewhere. Lots of red currants in evidence, too.

Huge portions, huge flavours, hugely appreciated.

By way of parental guidance, as the cinematographers say, the conversation turned to the etymology of the phrase "living over the brush", or even to jumping the broomstick.

Memory has it that the custom was much practised on the Tees bridge at Barnard Castle, its being outside the jurisdiction of both Durham and the North Riding, and that the son of a long gone rector of Romaldkirk had a nice little earner in conducting the supposed ceremonies.

No-one really knew why a brush was needed. Readers may again be able to help.

The Boss had begun with "really good" melon and lots of other fruit, followed by grilled halibut with lemon, lime and grapefruit and a six-cheese board that they couldn't see off between the lot of them.

The ice cream with nuts and toffee sauce was sensational. If you have nothing else, have that.

The young staff were cheerful, confident, attentive and articulate. The room was relaxing, there was no music. (Broadcast that loudly: THERE WAS NO MUSIC.) The food bill was £78 for four.

Back in the empty nest, we wished them happy times and safe journeys. Long before News at Ten was over, one of the old folks back home was contentedly asleep in his chair. Hail, and farewell.

* The Shoulder of Mutton, Kirby Hill, near Richmond (01748 822772). Food available Wednesday-Sunday evenings and Saturday and Sunday lunchtime. Booking recommended. Also five letting bedrooms; tricky for the disabled.

Peter Everett, who with his mum has transformed Darlington Snooker Club into a baize watering hole for real ale enthusiasts, receives CAMRA's North-East Club of the year award on February 21.

We've apologised in advance. Arngrove Northern League v Gretna that night (Billingham Synthonia, 7.30pm) for the Steve Tierney Memorial Fund. Pipes and drums, an' all. A more definite date is Peter's next "Booze 'n' Cues" festival, on the evening of Thursday, March 9 and all day Friday, Saturday and Sunday. More than 20 beers have been ordered, Amos Ale - top seller last time - admirably included. The club's on the corner of Northgate and Corporation Road; all welcome.

Stockton Beer Festival, promoted by Cleveland CAMRA, is at the Arc in Dovecote Street this Thursday, Friday and Saturday. From 11-5.30pm it's open to the public, after 6.30pm - when there's music each night - admission is by ticket only. Over 40 beers are promised and, happily, the Arc is no smoking.

A quick Sunday lunch at the Nags Head in Sedgefield, where Wards Bitter - once part of the Vaux empire - has made a reappearance. It seems to have lost its distinctiveness (and, indeed, its distinction).

Main course is £6.99, two courses £7.99, three £8.99. One had beef, the other lamb. Generous portions, wholly acceptable.

The blackboard offered the alternative of "flavoured gravy". The Boss thought the ordinary gravy gruesome. It tasted only of the packet, not flavour of the month at all.

Last week's column said that God's Kitchen in Chester Moor, near Chester-le-Street, was so called because in a previous incarnation the premises had been a church.

Alan Brown now reckons that the Methodist chapel was next door, and that the restaurant premises were formerly Chester Moor Workmen's Club. "If it was a church as you say," adds Alan, "it was the only one I know which sold Fed Best."

We'd also mentioned In Arcadia in Skinnergate, Darlington, billed as the North-East's first tarot caf. Next day it was chocker, reports co-owner Harold Volkmann, and the reader - due doubtless to wholly foreseen circumstances - had her busiest day ever.

....and finally, the last bairn at home wondered if we knew why the farmer was hopping mad.

Because someone had stood on his corn.

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