Lunch among the abstracts

MARSKE United FC's programme, recently and deservedly named Britain's best non-league programme - we don't do match day magazines - is this season repeating its A-Z of those perceived to have had some involvement with the club.

A, among others, is for Amos - a collection of scurrilous half-truths and geographical disorientation. The kidnap was Boroughbridge, fellers, not Leeming Bar.

B is for Neil Barker, known thereabouts as Surreal Neil and prompting recollections of the day that Marske played at Barwell, in Leicestershire, the furthest they'd ever been in the FA Vase.

The game's reaching a thrilling conclusion when Neil, looking the other way, says: "Have you seen that tree over there?", and half the crowd damn near misses a goal. Arboreal Neil, he collects telephone exchanges, too.

Though it is utterly and incorrigibly irrelevant, we mention all this because there's a book about surrealism in the atrium of mima, the recently and expensively opened Middlesbrough Institute of Modern Art and though it's home where the art is - there's a Cluff cartoon in our netty - we went there last Thursday for lunch.

There's a danger, of course, in being expected to fulfil some sort of Old Man Steptoe stereotype on these occasions - a sort of Philistine the Fluter's Ball - but some of the stuff on display did seem to be a little, you know, abstract.

There's an exhibition of ceramics by someone called Edmund de Waal which seemed to be altogether off de Waal. The Guardian, of course, had known better. "It enlarges our idea of what a pot can be," their learned critic observed.

There's a costume exhibition called Aggressive Localism which appears chiefly to consist of local-scene tea towels cut into strips and which might better have been named King's New Clothes.

There's a display of contemporary jewellery with accompanying text that seems, like some of the jewellery, to be rather precious and there's an exhibition of modern sculpture which the lady of the house much enjoyed.

Like some visitors' book signatories, however, she was largely disappointed. "I have to keep reminding myself," she said, "that when Sir Christopher Wren designed St Paul's, people said that that was rubbish, too."

The building, especially the atrium, is extremely impressive. Café Prego - light, white, plenty of height - is at one end.

There are modern furnishings, efficient, attractive but largely under-employed staff - one o'clock and hardly anyone around - and on the tables a listings magazine called The Crack.

It's published from Crack House, Pink Lane, Newcastle, which is memorable but may not be particularly advisable. Pink Lane has a bit of a colourful past, too.

The menu's mainly sandwiches, paninis, bagels and wraps, all around £3. Fillings might be crayfish and rocket, roast beef with caramelised onion chutney, houmous, sun-dried tomato and spinach or bacon, brie and avocado.

Since it's a day-time only operation, there are no heavy dishes: no stews, no pies, no cobblers. Not in the café, anyway.

They'd also held a competition to design your own sandwich, complete with artist's impression, won by Gabrielle Leighton with chargrilled vegetables, mozzarella and barbecue sauce. We had the last of the vegetables and some well-dressed salad. It was very good.

Among the others was Magnus Baird's cheese and chocolate - a recipe for migraine, The Boss thought - and peanut butter, chicken and bacon from Rory Hartley. Not even jam on it.

For £4.25, the lady had an exceptionally attractively presented avocado, mozzarella and sun-dried tomato salad - pretty as a picture, as they might say at mima - and thought it extremely tasty.

The mushroom soup which had gone before was from the Real Soup Company. It was perfectly OK, neither very good nor very bad. Stock soup, as it were.

There were lots of ice creams, too, but we finished with a couple of bits of delicious cake - tiffin and pumpkin and apricot flapjack - and with good, strong coffee.

Two thoughts occurred on the way back, the first a recollection of the campaign for the Victoria and Albert Museum with a slogan to the effect that it was an ace caff with a half-decent museum attached.

The other was that we'd not actually seen a painting all day, not even one that you didn't know which way round it was and that was the most surreal thing of all.

mima is in Centre Square, smack in the middle of Middlesbrough, near the "Bottle of notes" sculpture. It's open Tuesday-Saturday 10am-5pm and Sundays 12-4pm; admission free. The cafe is open from 8.30am. More details on www.visitmima.com

ALONE to Whitby, on what once would have been the milk train. "Not even the Queen gets a train to herself," says the guard from Middlesbrough, cheerfully, though the school run gathers pace as we head down the Esk Valley.

Mr Graham Manser, good egg and chairman of Whitby Town FC, has been charged with finding the best breakfast around. At Cross Butts Farm, he succeeds admirably.

Unlike so many bad starts to the day of late, this was a breakfast to set you up and not to weigh you down.

John Morley was a Friesian cattle farmer, breeder and international judge - "he just loved those black and whites," says Graham - who like many more had his life devastated by foot-and-mouth disease. He tried, and failed, to start again. "I lost the plot," says John. "They'd find me just sitting in the middle of the field. Sue, my wife, said that it if I wasn't careful, it would be me to put down next."

Instead he diversified, the results spectacular, the farm buildings - dating back to 1691 - transformed. Cross Butts Stables, a mile out of Whitby on the Guisborough road, now employs 34 staff, including nine chefs, and has a civil marriages licence.

Officially, it's a restaurant with rooms, marked by a striking stained glass entrance which sums up the story of his life.

Effectively it's much more. That day they were hosting a wake, the following day a wedding and on the Sabbath a baptism party. All human life, and the other thing, too.

Even at 8.45am, the breakfast room was warmed by a fire in a black leaded range, the entire good morning gamut the antithesis of the barrack room fare - and familiar fatigues - found frequently elsewhere.

For one thing there was waitress service - friendly, personable, impeccable. For another the breakfast, a choice including Whitby kippers, was of the highest quality. Uniquely in the column's experience, it included eggy bread, which posh folk call French toast but is probably still eggy bread where the Morleys come from.

The toast came wrapped in a napkin to keep its heat; little knobs of butter melted obligingly. The coffee was perfect after a 6am start.

John, lovely man, has done much of the work himself, materials sourced from across Britain. Thought for the day, he said that he still missed the Friesians, but wasn't it funny how things turned out?

AMOS Ale was relaunched by the Wear Valley Brewery last week. Same striking pump clip, different recipe - new and improved, as they say. It really was very pleasant.

The gathering was at the Stan Laurel, the Wetherspoon's pub in Bishop Auckland market place - the town and the area where the estimable Simon Gillespie is trying to refresh the parts which other brewers cannot reach.

A lifelong lager man ordered a pint of Amos. Simon rejoiced like the Road to Damascus.

He's also chairman of Bishop Auckland Round Table, whose beer festivals - with attendant pop bands - have been held these past couple of years at Auckland Castle, home of succeeding bishops of Durham.

The next one, however, will be in the marquee at the back of the Whitworth Hall Hotel, outside Spennymoor.

The reasons for the move from the bishop's residence are a little delicate. Suffice that you know that resounding hymn "Crown him with many crowns" and the line "Hark how the heavenly music drowns, all music but its own".

Well, this was the opposite.

...and finally, the bairns wondered if we knew what you call a chief among sausages.

A head banger, of course.