The Curmudgeon

These days, I must admit, the daily tabloids please me none of the time but that is by the way: this is about the way that the rather posh media can affect village life.

As I reported last week, the glossy Yorkshire Aspirational, bible of the nouveau riche, said some very nice things indeed about the traditional Olde Englishe fare being dished up at the Beggars' Arms.

And as a result, the village has been jam-packed all week by people in posh cars coming to sample the local nosh. It has become impossible to park in The Lane and Teacher Tess is talking about contacting the council to have double yellow lines painted all over the place.

In the Beggars', the phone keeps ringing off the hook and there have been several shouting matches as the Innkeeper turned away indignant loud-mouths who believed that by waving their gold and platinum credit cards, they could sit down to eat at any table, at any time, without the elementary courtesy of telephoning to book.

Now this is good news for the Beggars' in many ways, for we nearly lost the place during the foot and mouth shambles and getting back to normal was taking a long time.

Whether or not it is good for the Innkeeper's Lady is not so certain but she is one of those chefs who cooks largely for her own pleasure - that of her guests is her bonus - but she is finding the strain of mass catering very demanding.

It should also be good for Owd Tom and his son and grandson, Mid Tom and Yun Tom, because in the past, they have supplied much of the raw food that goes into the kitchen.

It began with rabbit pie after the village was over-run by the little bleepers two years ago, then went onto wild pigeon, which the landlady cooks for six hours on almost zero heat in port wine and cognac.

There were trout from the Beggar, wild mushrooms in the autumn, lamb and free range poultry and eggs from farms far and wide, and soon it will be Easter Pudding from the bistort that grows by the beck.

In other words, the passing English seasons on a plate. Trouble is, the Toms can't keep up with the demand, profitable though it has now become, and when lambing starts in a couple of weeks, Mine Hostess will have to start looking to professional catering suppliers.

That worries her more than somewhat, as she will no longer be able to claim that all her dishes come from local produce. She is, strangely enough, hoping that the fashion fad which has become The Beggars' will soon die down as the foodies flood to the next "in" place.

But some of us locals are not taking it too well either. It is difficult to get a seat at the bar, the drinks service is slower and the air is so full of cooking smells that you can no longer detect the wonderful aroma of the apple logs spitting and flickering in the big inglenook fire place.

Cousin Kate, the post mistress, last weekend nearly scratched the eyes out of a loud-mouthed, highly painted blonde lady from Harrogate who had taken the high stool that has been Kate's throne these past 30 years.

And Owd Tom was heard to moan: "T' place is a bleeping restaurant, not a pub any more." Old Northcliffe may have gone potty in his older years - but he was dead right about pleasing folk.

* The Curmudgeon is a satirical column based on a fictitious character in a mythical village.