JUST as the old man was in London, holding his first press conference as England football manager, there were some boys in Steve McClaren's garden kicking a ball about.

As his voice came over the car radio on Thursday afternoon, their voices echoed around the village of Aislaby, a mile or so outside Yarm.

The noise of their bouncing ball got caught in the tall trees, until it was drowned out by an ostentatious neighbour, who throatily revved his red Ferrari while waiting for his electronic gates to open sesame.

Aislaby is a curious place. Its name dates from Viking days, 11 centuries ago. It probably means 'Aislac's village', and it is one of very few places north of the Tees with a name ending in 'by'.

It is only just north of the Tees. A delightful woodland walk near the McClarens' house drops down to the river. Swifts scream overhead; hatched pigeon eggshells lie on the path which brings you to the Tees, deep and dark and tempting on a hot May day, flowing quietly about its business.

Four green wooden chalets - holiday homes - overlook this fishermen's paradise, deckchairs on their balconies waiting to be lounged in.

The names scratched on a riverside water board box are probably more revealing: Charlie, Emily, Daisy and Henry. Aislaby feels like the sort of place where you'd encounter such a famous four.

The graffiti aside, the village is curious because it is practically characterless. It has no more than 25 houses, a few of them very old, and the rest modern brick-built with names that hint at their pretensions: Tudor Hill and Highgrove House, for example.

In terms of facilities, Aislaby has little more than a pillar box, a phone box and a noticeboard.

But perhaps, one day, it shall have more. A lot more. Mother Shipton, the prophetess who lived near Knaresborough 500 years ago, foretold: "When Egglescliffe sinks and Yarm swims, Aislaby will be the market town."

In terms of history, the village appears not to have a lot. The original Aislaby family quietly passed their land down the family tree, which spread its branches gently across the North-East.

A Victorian historian notes: "The Aislabies were so fond of the name of Michael that one of them at Bowes having only daughters, and fearing that no son would ever arrive, called one of them Michal!"

At least Mr McClaren has made this most unlikely of villages a footnote in modern football history.

For the last games of this season, he remains Middlesbrough manager, the club's Hurworth training ground ten miles from his home along a back road that twists and turns through Middleton One Row and Neasham.

And what a back road, full of tantalising names and long lost stories. How can you explain Sloshmire Gate, Brass Castle, Nelly Burdon's Beck and the farms of Hunger Hill and Cold Comfort?

It passes Trafford Hill. It may remind Mr McClaren of his time at Manchester United but here, in 1643, an earlier version of Sir Alex Ferguson - Oliver Cromwell - reputedly placed his cannon and pounded the offending village of Worsall, on the opposite bank of the Tees, off the face of the earth.

And the lane passes the medieval villages of Newsham and Low Middleton. They've been deserted for centuries, now - although on Thursday evening, six roe deer, bold as brass, sauntered over the lane and wandered casually into the field where you can just about pick out the remains of the houses once built of clay and river boulders.

You don't encounter such things on your journey if you work at the Football Association headquarters in Soho Square, central London.