Early warming

Their motto was “Only the enemy in front”.

The John North column told their story last July, how Major John Parry – the commanding officer – had ferried his beagle pack in a black cab across London, bought each one a ticket from King’s Cross and hunted them round the dale.

The Reccies had a cat, too. It was called Minniehaha.

“People today tell their kids to be careful on the roads but back then we were growing up with Chieftain tanks and Bren gun carriers all over this little village,” local councillor James Kendall had recalled.

The Reeth Battle School had been almost forgotten, nothing to mark the days and nights when mock battles illuminated and reverberated round the dales or when the Reccies marched off on the high road to Langthwaite.

“Most people in Reeth probably know more about the Hartlepool monkey than they do about what happened here during the war,” the man they call Corky Kendall had said, and vowed to do something about it.

Last November, Armistice Day, a little plaque was unveiled outside Hill House – now the Burgoyne Hotel – where the NCOs had been based.

Off on holiday, we looked into the hotel for breakfast and that was unforgettable, too. Highly recciemended, it might almost be supposed.

It should at once be said that the Burgoyne doesn’t come cheap. Breakfast is £17.50, a price at which it needs to be very good indeed, a fourcourse dinner is £35.85 and a bed for the night may be getting on £200.

It was impeccably run for 20 years by Derek Hickson, for many of them with his late business partner Patrick Cawardine, was named in 2001 as the Good Hotel Guide’s Yorkshire Hotel of the year and bought in May by Mo and Julia Usman – he a recently retired lieutenant colonel at Catterick Garrison, she a farmer’s daughter from those parts.

“We often walked in the dales and called in for coffee. It’s a delightful place,” said Julia last week.

It’s a lovely house with lovely views over a lovely village. Furnishings are elegant, atmosphere perfectly balanced between refined and relaxed.

It was the middle of the Swaledale Festival, though other diners could have been recovering from a beer festival, so subdued the room. Perhaps there was just something particularly interesting in The Telegraph.

The Echo had the story of the Barnard Castle mayor barred from one of his locals, a reminder of the Seventies story of Reeth retained fireman Simon Coates, barred similarly from the Buck at the top of the green.

Since the Buck was where they held the firemen’s ball, a secret ballot was called to see if they should continue there. They voted 10-1 to stay put, and with little need to guess the identity of the odd-man-out.

The breakfast menu, like all the menus, had at its foot the quotation “Fame is at best an unperforming cheat, but ‘tis substantial happiness to eat” – one of those lines that initially sounds quite smart but which, upon reflection, is a load of old cobblers.

We’d booked, as non-residents must, warmly welcomed by two formally attired and wonderfully efficient waitresses.

There were gallons of fruit juice, cereals, great orchards of fresh and preserved fruit, warm brown toast, excellent coffee – Kenco something-or-other – even Marmite for those hooked on such things.

The lady ordered finnan haddock with a poached egg and spinach, coincidental because we’d just been reading a collection of Test Match Special interviews in which Roy Hudd or someone recalled a stage line about asking for haddock.

“Finnan?” asked the waiter.

“No,” said Hudd, “I think I’d prefer a thick ’un.”

It’s the sort of gag that would have Test Match Special listeners in raptures.

She also took a particular liking to the lime and stem ginger marmalade, made specially for the hotel. While the toast was temporarily exhausted, she howked marmalade from the jar with a spoon. It may be considered the Welsh peasant in her.

I had the eggs Benedict, etymology uncertain, but which classically is toasted muffins with bacon, poached eggs and a hollandaise sauce.

This was classic, the sauce briskly tart, the eggs perfect.

The coffee was regularly refilled, without asking.

Best of all, there was no music or radio whatever.

Set up for the day, we asked for another look at the menu to check the “fame” quotation.

Mind-reading, the older of the two waitresses had first tried to check its provenance – “I guessed that was your next question” – but found the lady who does the wages on the computer.

The waitress proved to be Julia, the co-owner. They plan few changes, she said afterwards – “There are too many regulars who love the place” – though there may be some tweaking.

Whatever the cost, it was a suitably sybaritic and unequivocally excellent way to start the holiday. It’s said that the Reccies and their comrades fought for civilisation: at the Burgoyne it’s mission accomplished.

􀁧 The Burgoyne Hotel, Reeth. Tel. 01748- 884292. Open to non-residents but booking essential.

THE George and Dragon in Boldron, between the A66 and Barnard Castle, held its first beer festival last weekend. In order to work up a thirst, we took a ten-mile walk – these days a ten-mile hirple – before it.

We wrote a few months back of new owners Sarah Lewington and Kevin Broome – together idiosyncratic (who else would serve dolly mixtures with the coffee, or list summer jelly and ice cream among the puddings?), warmly welcoming, appealingly homely and committed to good food and ale.

On this occasion, rations were rationed to excellent burgers – including lentil burgers – with well-dressed salad for £2.50 and a cheese plate for the same price.

A pint of Wensleydale Gold proved eminently quenching, followed by Curlew’s Somethingor- other from the Allendale Brewery – they like their Allendale beers at Boldron – and a pint of Apollo from the Durham Brewery.

Durham, who’ve majored on ecclesiastical names for their beers, also had one scandalously called Vice. It seemed ill-advised. Even after a ten-mile appetiser, that was enough vices for one day.

CLEARLY at cross purposes, a note on Billingham Catholic Club in the last column said that Barabbas was the thief crucified with Christ.

He wasn’t: that, traditionally, was Dismas.

Barabbas, as Bernadette Lawson points out, was the one who was released.

BENEATH the headline “A brush with Mr Bean”, we wrote in 2003 of a visit to the Kirk Inn, in Romaldkirk, Teesdale.

“Mr Bean” was Paul Jackson, the landlord, so nicknamed because of a perceived physical resemblance to the television character.

He’s still there, still wearing a great many hats, joined from this weekend by Joe and Denise Rodriguez – he Spanish, she English – who’ll be offering authentic tapas dishes from 6-9pm on Fridays, 12-9pm on Saturdays and 12- 4pm on Sundays.

…and finally, the bairns wondered if we knew what you feed an invisible cat.

Evaporated milk.