Brough...

Parked up in Brough last night. It must have been a busy spot at one time; now, though, the traffic rushes by on the A66, and nothing Brough has to offer encourages people to slow down. There must have been plenty of coaching inns too; now there are only two pubs left. One is rough and ready, for locals; the other, bizarrely, has lurched upmarket. It’s now called The Inn at Brough (written in a curly script on the wall), with pretentions to become an upmarket eatery.

Before I was able to tuck into my pie and chips, the waitress slid a piece of slate in front of me. “An amuse bouche” she said, “with the compliments of the chef”. On the slate were two smears of something pale and translucent - wallpaper paste or, just possibly, chef’s ejaculate - plus a bit of greenery and, the piece de resistance, a piece of damp toast about the size of a postage stamp. An early night beckoned…

Brough Castle...