THE motto on the Vane family arms is “nec timere nec timide” – neither rashly nor fearfully. But do the same words apply to the Vane Arms? It is a pub in the village of Long Newton, off the A66 midway between Darlington and Stockton, which had been derelict for more than two years.

Some would say it was exceedingly rash, in the midst of a deep recession which is sweeping similar establishments into bankruptcy, for Jill and Paul Jackson to buck the trend and bring it back to life.

Yet, without being fearful of contradiction, their investment is paying off. When we arrive, the car park is full, vehicles overflowing into the street, and a brand new, bright red Mazda sportscar is parked ostentatiously beside the door.

The bar is similarly full. The Vane Arms has just been included in the Good Beer Guide and Jill and Paul are working hard to make it a community hub once again.

The restaurant feels like a converted bar with sofas running around the walls. My wife, Petra, complains that she has to sit beside me as if we were “on the buses”. It is touching that, after all these years, she still wishes to look lovingly into my eyes, but the lack of a visual obstruction opposite allows me to neb at fellow diners.

All but one of the eight tables is occupied.

Someone in the distance is talking about Dostoyevsky; someone closer to hand complains that he is no longer able to wear his favourite item of clothing when on holiday because his family have nicknamed him “Cardigan Jim”.

For the rest of the evening, I juggle with an image of Jim on his sun lounger, in only his cardigan, having a struggle with Crime and Punishment.

EACH of the Vane Arms’ interestingsounding starters is enlivened with a home-made element. The pan-seared king scallops (£4.95) are served on a slate and sit attractively on top of circles of home-made black pudding. Smears of roast apple puree create a well-rounded taste.

Petra’s Truffled Chicken Liver Parfait (£3.95) is probably the highlight of the meal, going beautifully with the Cumberland jelly and toasted white bread that has been baked on the premises.

Sadly, by the time I’ve made a clean slate of my scallops, there is not enough toast or jelly left for me to enjoy the full experience, but the taste of the parfait is to be savoured.

For the main course, I enjoyed the rolled and poached chicken breast stuffed with brie and sun-blushed tomatoes (£10.25). It wasn’t uniformly stuffed, so each mouthful was a surprise of alternating tastes, from the creaminess of the brie to the rich rush of the sunblushed tomatoes.

Crunchy peapods were a delightful addition, although I wasn’t sure about the new potatoes semi-mashed with their skins on.

Petra went for a Caesar Salad with Chicken (£7.25) because she didn’t want “anything too substantial”. As a side dish, she had home-cut chunky chips – probably the most substantial item on the menu, served in a very substantial pile.

She decreed them “excellent”, but floundered among the vast quantities of lettuce in the salad. The croutons were impenetrable without a dentist on hand, but the anchovies mingling with the cheesy Caesar dressing and the chicken and bacon created a pleasing overall taste.

Cardigan Jim, by the way, was in raptures over his rare steak, comparing it favourably to one he had in the Savoy grill in Piccadilly in 1963.

Desserts are £4.20. My sticky toffee pudding was slightly crusty, but topped with a deliciously creamy homemade ice cream.

Petra ordered Elderflower Creme Brulee, served with poached rhubarb and rhubarb syrup. This strikes me as brave on both the part of the chef and the diner. Elderflower is a notoriously delicate fragrance, and proved reluctant to reveal itself in the creme brulee, particularly when partnered by the strident syrup.

However, the overall effect was attractive.

Then we turned to the poached rhubarb.

Quite why anyone would wish to eat rhubarb is beyond me, just like only a fool would order gooseberries. Rhubarb is, by nature, unpleasantly sharp and stringy.

The poaching had at least removed the sharpness, but naturally had left only an unsweet stringiness.

We argued all the way home about the edibility of rhubarb, pausing only to debate the merits of chunky chips – I believe they fall unsatisfactorily between two stools, neither the whole hog of roasted potatoes nor the tasty accompaniment of skinny fries.

The bill was unarguable: £49.10 for two. Less drinks and coffees, it was under £20 each for three courses of well-presented, fresh food enlightened by several imaginative and homemade touches, served by attentive waitresses.

As the arms of the old Vane family of Long Newton and Wynyard Hall suggests, a diner approaches the Vane Arms nec timere nec timide – neither rashly nor fearfully.