GAVIN AITCHISON ventures to pastures new, with his willing chauffeur in tow.

REJOICE with me, dear reader. A new era has dawned.

By the time you read this I will be out in the sticks, in the middle of nowhere, possibly not even Yorkshire any more for all I know, drinking the finest of fine ales, amber nectar to my lips, beer that has never tasted better.

For lo, my wife has passed her driving test - and these jolly jaunts will never be the same again.

No more must I scrutinise bus timetables, plead with friends to drive, or come to country pubs only to enviously eye the ales while supping on my poxy lemonade. No, I can now regale you with tales of ales from far away, of how I smiled at the mild in an inaccessible inn, and then laugh at my own jokes all the way home while my chauffeur - sorry, wife - ferries me to and fro. To cap it all off, she only rarely wants a drink herself, so will never cavil when I suggest she drives. Where I seek pubs and pints, she eyes ice-cream parlours and tea-rooms; a very manageable trade-off.

Who knows where this could lead? Within weeks, I may be embarking on long, rambling weekend road-trips, through the Wolds and the Moors, along back-roads and by-roads to every village pub in the county, coming back demanding the editor give us twice our usual space in the paper, so we can fit in all the wondrous beers, butties and bars I've found.

But first, we headed along the A59 to Green Hammerton. Even great adventures must begin with a single step, and all that.

I have passed the sign for The Bay Horse hundreds of times. It calls out from the verge to anyone heading between York and Harrogate, a few moments before the turning for Green Hammerton itself.

"Excellent food available daily," it declares. "En suite accommodation. Next right."

So we took that next right, parked carefully opposite the pub, and headed forth.

The Bay Horse is a Greene King pub, which has been run for the past five years by landlady Stella Curley, aided by her partner Mike Rawlingson, daughter Connie and son Tom.

The beer choice was modest, but admittedly there's a limit to what one can expect in a quiet village on a Monday night in November. I took a pint of the only available real ale, Timothy Taylor's Landlord, although Black Sheep is also usually available as a permanent fixture, and there's usually a rotating guest ale as well, currently York Brewery's Guzzler.

We settled at a small table in the main bar room, which fortuitously gave us a good view of the plates of food being brought out, vapourising the last of my resistance.

Food is served daily from noon to 2.30pm and 6pm to 9pm on weekdays; noon to 9pm on Saturday and noon to 7pm on Sundays, and the menu includes sandwiches, pub classics and a decent grilled selection. Those who value local ingredients and care about their meal's provenance will be buoyed to know that most of the food comes from Tancred Farm, just a mile up the road.

I was tempted by the grilled honey and smoked paprika chicken salad but went instead for the black pudding, apple and mustard stack from the starters menu, a small but brilliant accompaniment to the Landlord.

The black pudding was rich and unctuous, though the whole Jenga-like structure collapsed at the touch of a knife. The beer was in excellent condition, familiar yet fantastic, and all the better for the fact that my lift home was ready and waiting, demanding nothing more than that I don't comment on her parking.

Twitter: @PintsOfView