Alice band

THE White Horse of Kilburn, long indistinguishable from the insurmountable snow, now lies impenetrable in the murk. A mile or two beyond, the ruins of Byland Abbey – 12th Century, Cistercian, stupendous – shiver habitually.

Necessarily slow on the meandering roads east of Thirsk, progress is further impeded by the X31 bus, its route map on the side lest the driver forget himself.

X is bus company shorthand for express. The snail’s pace at which non-express services operate may hardly be imagined. And speaking of slow motion...

The Abbey Inn, built as a farmhouse in 1845 and now owned by English Heritage, stands solidly opposite the monastic ruins. “There may be a short wait,” they say when we arrive at 1pm, an assertion both understandable – we’d called on spec – and since the pub’s delightful, cosy, stone flagged and fascinating not unwelcome, either.

We’ve a sofa by a wood-burning stove, over which empty Christmas stockings still hang, property of the Little Boy Who Santa Claus Forgot.

There are magazines, games and (whisper it) the Yorkshire Post, in which a headline proclaims that 2011 will be the Year of the Pie. Even wedding cakes will be usurped by pies. Last year, apparently, was the Year of the Cupcake.

The YP thinks it madness.

Melanie and TJ Drew, formerly at the Apple Tree in Marton, near Pickering, took over the lease of the much-lauded Abbey in the summer of 2009. His first name’s Trajan, apparently, which may explain an initial enthusiasm.

The pub newsletter, sadly, reveals a parting of the ways. TJ, writes Melanie, walked out on both their business and their marriage. David Robbins, the other chef, is now her business partner – his food, he says, is “crowd pleasing, modest and simple whilst remaining stylish and full of flavour”.

Less modestly, an aphorism on the wall proclaims that life’s too short for cheap wine. Easily persuaded in such matters, The Boss orders a small glass of something French. £4.75.

Melanie proves cheerfully and professionally attentive, though she should be counselled against addressing customers, particularly those of us who’ve been a few times round the cloisters, as “my darling”.

It’s uncomfortably redolent of the favoured form of address in old folks’ homes. Besides, didn’t the very same headline that heralded 2011 pie in the sky also proclaim that 60 was the new sexy?

After 75 minutes and a couple of pints of Wold Top beer – happily, they’re real ale enthusiasts – we’re called to a table in a little side room that’s classy, quirky and comfortable. Two courses are £15, three £19.

The Boss begins with smoked salmon, beetroot, horseradish and – get this – three little marbles of lemon curd ice cream. Somewhat to her surprise, she believes it works.

Were that to be supposed a bit unusual, however, the “soup in a teapot” (£5) is like something out of Alice in Wonderland, only yet more bizarre. A tray arrives with a floral teapot duly containing the parsnip soup, a cup into which the diner is expected to pour it, a sugar bowl with some shards of parsnip crisp and a milk jug with nutmeg cream. Worst of all, it’s barely lukewarm. The waiter perfunctorily apologises, but offers no redress. Probably doesn’t even tell the kitchen. This sort of thing should be parsnipped in the bud.

After another 25 minutes the main courses arrive, appropriately around 3pm as it’s now developing into a Mad Hatter’s Tea Party, the Alice band clearly in full swing out the back.

She’s ordered “posh” fish and chips. They arrive on a plate covered by the letters page of the Sunday Telegraph (“Party must unite behind Cameron”) with the principal constituents still in deep fat fryers.

Between the two pans are one of those daft, irritating, vogue-ish Kilner jars of pea puree and another of tartare sauce. A small bottle of ketchup and another of vinegar – the acetic meeting the ascetic, as they may have said in Cistercian times – help complete the tableau.

There are no instructions. Should it be constructed, deconstructed or – as finally she decides – eaten with the fingers? This is ridiculous.

Food should be left to speak for itself, not be part of a song and dance act. The really silly thing is that this speaks eloquently, the chips outstanding.

If we’d wanted a pantomime, we’d have gone to the blooming Theatre Royal.

I’ve ordered the “pork trio”, £14 when priced separately. It comprises a sausage, some small slices of “Easingwold” fillet and a small, homemade pie about the size of a one-year-old’s fist.

It comes with a hillock of mash, a little bowl of pineapple chutney and a cider and mustard seed sauce that seems almost irrelevant to the proceedings.

The apple and blackberry crumble tart is made to order and would be 20 minutes, says the waiter. Since it’s 3.15, getting on vespers, I order the white chocolate and orange pannacotta.

That takes 18 minutes but is wonderfully worth the wait – a terrific pudding, not least the piquant blood orange sauce.

With drinks and a coffee, the bill falls just short of £50, not what you’d call hair-shirted.

We leave at 3.55pm, darkness again enveloping the White Horse. So much for monastic orders.

■ The Abbey Inn, Byland, Thirsk. Telephone 01347-868204. No food Monday evening; closed Tuesdays. No problem for the disabled.

Darlington Camra’s Christmas social at the Snooker Club proved the usual convivial affair, even in conversation with a cheery undertaker.

“You wouldn’t believe the health and safety,”

he says. There’s meant to be a presentation to Brendan Boyle, for 25 years the main man on the Darlington Drinker magazine, but the poor lad’s bad in bed. The company raises a glass to him, instead.

PROPER fans may have more specific memories of Bishop Auckland Football Club, the most successful amateur side in history.

Mine are of the pies; they were Taylor’s.

At the back end of last year, the club finally moved into the smart new Heritage Park stadium at Tindale Crescent, on the outskirts of town – probably the first Northern League ground in history, as the league magazine perceptively has observed, to have piped music in the gent’s.

The food’s moved upmarket, too, provided on match days and for functions by a company called Occasional Table, while there’s a bottled beer called Two Blues Celebration Ale hand crafted (it says on the label) by the Yard of Ale brewery in Ferryhill.

Heritage Park is also featured in the latest issue of Groundtastic magazine. “For all the newness and sparkle on display there is something strangely comforting about the good oldfashioned gas holder that looms large at the uncovered end of the ground,” it says.

Groundtastic further notes that the Bishops have had few red letter days of late, though that may be – as the curmudgeonly old league chairman has been obliged to point out – because they built the ground without a letter box. It’s being rectified.

It should have been the bank holiday derby with Spennymoor, snow again making it a blank holiday instead. Most clubs didn’t kick a ball in December. We went for the carvery, anyway, at once rebuked for wearing an Arsenal scarf. It could have been worse. It could have been Shildon’s.

The Boss, abstaining, sat beside Bishops’ engaging secretary Tony Duffy, a man who not only has all 692 episodes of Prisoner Cell Block H, but goes to Neighbours conventions in Australia and once at 1am at Heathrow Airport got a cuddle from Sporty Spice. Good lad, Tony.

Main course and starter or pudding were £12.

The pork was first rate, Yorkshire pudding and vegetables properly sustained, apple crumble delicious.

They asked what we thought, the wait rather like the silence while Bob contemplates his verdict on Mrs Cratchit’s Christmas pudding. They needn’t have worried: a home win. Cooking on gasometers.

...and finally, the bairns wondered if we knew what you call a penguin in the desert. Lost.