EMBLETON is a village on the north Northumberland coast, tranquil save for karaoke night at the Greys Inn. Weather warning notwithstanding, we passed last weekend there.

It was the home of Sir Edward Grey, later Viscount Grey of Follodon, the Liberal home secretary who on the eve of the First World War famously supposed that the lamps were going out all over Europe and "we shall not see them lit again in our lifetime".

Closer to home, Embleton was also the birthplace in 1849 of WT Stead, who at 21 became editor of The Northern Echo and for the next ten years served it with indelible distinction.

Gladstone thought the 1870s Echo a paper "admirably got up in every way", regretting only that he didn't see it more often.

A new pub across the road from here will shortly be named in Stead's memory, though whether he would have approved is debatable.

His father was Embleton's Congregational minister, taught his son Latin as a second language and at the age of 12 sent him to Silcoates School in Wakefield.

The Old Manse remains, a plaque recording the birthplace of a "journalist and apostle of peace".

At 14 he was apprenticed in the counting house of a wine merchant in Newcastle - perhaps he'd have approved of the pub, after all - his preferred reading was said to be the Sporting Life until he discovered Dick's Penny Shakespeare. Much of his writing was for Boy's Own.

We'd not realised the Embleton connection until browsing around the 12th century Holy Trinity church on Saturday morning, the vicar faithfully saying the daily office at the front. The little leaflet also mentioned that a village road had recently been renamed in Stead's honour.

It was 8am on Sunday, however, fresh snow blanketing the village and chill wind goose-stepping from the German Ocean, before the search for WT Stead Road began in earnest.

The lady in the paper shop gave careful directions; a kindly gent said he was passing that way and would point it out. It may not have been the great campaigner's idea of investigative journalism, but as half the village pulled bed clothes yet closer around its ears, at least it showed willing.

It was the road between the Blue Bell and the Creighton Hall. The name plate was on the wall, said the kindly gent. It was last time he'd looked, anyway.

The single nameplate has gone, the writing no longer on the wall. The circumstances are mysterious, the village baffled. The chap back at the Dunstanburgh Castle Hotel supposed that a homeward drunk might have pinched it, others suspect something more carefully planned.

"Who'd want it save for an admirer of WT Stead?" said parish councillor George Skipper, hooded and huddled against the storm. "We're terribly disappointed at the theft because we're very proud of Stead in Embleton. "Why should anyone go to all that trouble, just to steal a road sign?"

Indefatigable like the man they honour, the community plans a replacement. "We're getting special screws," said Coun Skipper. "Next time Stead will be here for keeps."

THE Eating Owt column, which next week will also offer a taste of Northumberland, touched last week on the problem of hiccups, from which Pope Pius XII died in 1958 and which had affected a fellow diner at the Hole in the Wall in Darlington.

"The best and almost instantaneous relief is to drink a teaspoonful of vinegar; it never fails," writes Gordon Thubron from Newton Aycliffe. Holding our breath, other suggestions much welcomed.

HAVE Sainsbury's become the latest victim of the all-pervading political correctness, wonders Howard Steele in Low Coniscliffe, near Darlington? His hot cross buns bore but a single stripe; Sainsbury's promised to ring him back, and didn't.

"It could be the elimination of yet another Christian symbol," says Howard, 79. "I wouldn't care if any other religion wants to celebrate their festivals, so why should others interfere when we try to mark ours?"

The Echo's splendid shopping correspondent was duly sent on an errand to Sainsbury's Darlington branch. Happily, she reports that everyone may be at what we might call cross purposes.

"There are plenty of perfectly good hot cross buns," she reports. "It's just that some are a little bit wonky."

It was necessary, of course, to buy rather a lot for reasons of research. As mother so memorably remarked in the Railway Children, there will be buns for tea.

Goodness knows why, last week's column supposed that the only two UK number ones with lyrics partly in German were Wooden Heart by Elvis Presley and, 23 years later, 99 Red Balloons by Nena.

Both Paul Hardy and Chris Hancock add Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick by Ian Dury and the Blockheads in 1979, perhaps - though someone's bound to know better - the only number one in three different languages.

Hit me with your rhythm stick; Hit Me, hit me Je t'adore, ich liebe Dich Hit Me, Hit Me.

So, trilingually, it went on. Tony Eaton in Romanby, Northallerton, confirms that although Eddie Calvert's version of Oh Mein Papa was instrumental, Ronnie Hilton - UKIP's improbable candidate for Hartlepool at the last general election - had a version partly in German.

Calvert, son of a Preston brass bandsman, topped the charts for nine weeks with Oh Mein Papa in 1953, the first instrumental to win a gold disc. Had he lived, The Man With the Golden trumpet would have been 84 today.

Tony Eaton, who also reckons that there's a postcard somewhere "lyrically describing the beauties of Leeming Bar", offers Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen as an example of a number one song which didn't have the title in the lyrics.

John Briggs in Darlington adds Unchained Melody, A Lovers' Concerto by The Toys, Smells Like Teen Spirit (Nirvana), Annie's Song (John Denver) and Velotte by Julian Lennon. Unsung heroes as always, readers may be able to add one or two of their own.

Last week's column told of the "limited edition luxury table lamp" showing - it was said - scenes of Durham City. One of the four was of the church of St Margaret of Antioch, 250 miles away in Mapledurham, Berkshire.

Ian McDougall in Bishop Auckland points out that the church in Crossgate, Durham, is also dedicated to St Margaret of Antioch - "the lamp manufacturers have got it half right."

As the lamp manufacturers might themselves suppose, Mr McDougall's Christian charity puts all others in the shade.

...and finally, recent discussion of unfortunate names elicited recollection of a farmer in the Ferryhill area called Alf Hart. That, in turn, prompted the mischievous Alan Archbold in Sunderland to send four separate text messages to a local radio station using that name. "Each time the message has been read out. They haven't twigged it yet," he reports gleefully. Another outside broadcast next week.