ON a day so damp and so drear that you couldn't see a crash barrier in front of you, we almost literally bumped into the North-East Mini Club's treasure hunt on the North Yorkshire moors last Saturday.

Goodness only knows if they found the treasure, we couldn't even find the Lord Stones Cafe, above Carltonin-Cleveland, which is where this exclusively registered vehicle was parked.

Amid the mist and rain, the number plate appeared at first to be SCOOPER, perfect for a Mini Cooper S but appropriate only for proper journalists.

Embellished on the computer screen, however, it becomes clear that the registration is actually S600RER - ingenious evidence that good stuff comes in little bundles.

Minimalistic, but can it really be legal?

THE rain every bit as persistent, the mist little less impenetrable, the following day found us in Westgate-in-Weardale - and contemplating another curious name plate.

"Leading to Weeds", it said, and sounded - dust to dust, ashes to ashes - almost scriptural.

Weeds, it transpired, is a hamlet - once bigger and more scattered - above the village.

"It's been Weeds for as long as I can remember, but I've no idea why, " said Elsie Fairless, 54 years on the local church council. The man to ask, she added, was Peter Bowes, who'd once spoken to the Women's Institute on local place names.

Mr Bowes, down in Stanhope, reckons that the original 13th century village - just outside the Bishop of Durham's deer park - was called New Close.

The name changed, he guesses, in the 17th century. "It isn't a very presumptuous name, is it?" says Peter. "It may have fallen into disrepair at some stage, but to be honest I've no idea of the origin."

Help in getting to the root of the problem would much be appreciated.

"Leading to Weeds" may otherwise end in tares.

ANOTHER smart bit of spotting, Tony Eaton in Brompton, Northallerton, noticed this garage pick-up parked in Northallerton High Street.

It advertises twenty three and a half hour service. Tony asked the guys from Northallerton Tyre and Battery Ltd why.

Having half an hour off each day, they said, gave them chance to complete life's four essential functions - shave, shower and shampoo being three of them.

"He actually used the vernacular for the fourth, " adds Tony. "I thought it quite funny myself."

THE absentee - Shhhh, you know what - needs no explanation.

Similarly, after last week's note on "French military victories" - the Google search engine reports no hits, and asks if the searcher meant "French military defeats" - Newcastle United fan Ian Cross sends an impression of another Google page.

Ian sought unsuccessfully for references to "Sunderland aren't rubbish" (shall we euphemistically suppose. ) "Do you mean Sunderland are rubbish?" it responded.

HIS e-mail timed at 5.39am last Wednesday, Rob Williams at Tyne Tees Television also noted the "cruel jibe against the martial qualities of our Gallic neighbours" and was reminded ("as you are") of the Battle of Mahon in 1756. His note continues verbatim.

"It wasn't just a French victory but that rare phenomenon, a French naval victory. The French saw off a British fleet and captured the town and the fort, forcing the British soldiers to surrender.

"Admiral John Byng was deemed not to have engaged the enemy with sufficient vigour, in that he didn't engage them at all. He was later executed by firing squad on his own quarter-deck, prompting Voltaire to make the famous comment that the British occasionally shoot an admiral 'pour encourager les autres.' "I was also going to tell you, " adds Rob, "that the French admiral's chef marked the occasion by inventing sauce mahonnaise, named after the victory, and which is now (of course) called mayonnaise.

"It turns out that that may not be true at all, however, and that it could instead have been named after the Duke of Mayenne, who took time to eat a meal of chicken and the aforementioned sauce before the Battle of Arques in 1589. Sadly, he lost the battle, which brings us back to where we started."

The Oxford English Dictionary prefers the 18th century account. It mayo may not be true.

SUCH flippant dressing reminded the lady of this house of what she insists is her alltime second favourite joke.

Knock-knock.

Who's there?

Mayonnaise.

Mayonnaise who?

Mayonnaise have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord. . . .

Her favourite joke's the one about where Julius Caesar kept his armies.

It's probably best not to ask.

TIM Stahl in Darlington further researched the "French military victories" debacle, discovering a report that the "prank" was placed on Google in 2003 by a 22-year-old Canadian student.

"It was a humorous way, " he said, "of showing political opposition to French weaseling." When it became known, 50,000 people attempted the search in 18 hours.

It only works by hitting the "I'm feeling lucky" key. A mainstream Google search for "French military victories" reveals 51,500 documents.

Though the report which Tim discovers explains how to circumvent the no-win situation, neither Google nor any Frenchman has ever bothered to do so.

LAST week's column also discussed what might be termed printers' errors, especially on grave stones. Most of the resulting correspondence was risque, and had best not be risked.

Particularly, therefore, we are grateful to Tom Dobbin in Durham who recalls that the actor and playwright Alan Bennett found a slightly discordant epitaph on a grave: Down the lanes of memory Our thoughts are never dim, As the stars begin to shine We'll remember her.

With a well-remembered epitaph, the Stokesley Stockbroker also recalls the days when a special train ticket allowed the traveller to stop off in the middle of the outward trip.

Here lie the bones of Elizabeth Verney Who fell from a train and broke her journey.

Who the poor lady was, and whether she travelled first, second or third, has never been explained.

AFTER the original monumental mistake, the missing letter on the gravestone had been inserted with the use of a "carrot mark" - so called, last week's column said, because of its resemblance to that freshly picked vegetable.

That's what they taught us at journalism college, anyway. I can still see the lecturer; looked a bit like Bamber Gascoigne. Better educated readers queue reproachfully.

Peter Sotheran in Redcar - "You may know your onions, but you don't know your carrots" - joins John Briggs in Darlington and Richard Morgan in insisting that it's a "caret" mark, from the Latin meaning "There is wanting." And they say, adds Richard, that a classical education has no benefits.

John Briggs also believes that the word is closely related to "castrate", but that may be a classical error.

Caret and stick, the column returns next Wednesday.