Ever mindful of the recommendations of our readers, we are doubly urged to try the Fox Hall Inn, just off the A66 at East Layton. Unfortunately, neither of our correspondents offered any reason why.

And so, left guessing as to what exactly prompted their letters - was it going to be outstandingly good or depressingly awful? - it was with more than the usual curiosity that we made our 40mph way along the notorious Route 66.

I would hesitate to undermine the long-awaited upgrading of this fearsome highway, but as the speed limit and overtaking ban imposed while the work is underway proves, this is probably all they had to do to make the road safe. The difference is dramatic: no suicidal overtaking, no hurtling along at breakneck speed, it's almost a pleasure to drive along the A66 now. I could have saved them millions - and acres of beautiful countryside now disappearing under tarmac.

The Fox Hall has for years been a popular roadhouse - a rather knockabout, pubby sort of place you would call in after a trip to the Lakes. As memory serves, the restaurant was so oak-pannelled and so dark it was almost impossible to read the menu, let alone see what you were eating, which did give the place a certain sense of adventure.

And it's interesting to see the pub is still decorated with all things vulpine, including lots of venerable cartoons of foxes chasing huntsmen, which is probably very PC today.

Now, while the bar is still as cosy - although why anyone would want to eat next to the serial smokers who packed the place is anyone's guess - the spacious conservatory which now serves as a dining room had about as much atmosphere as a village hall on a badly attended bingo night.

But the heavy furniture, stone-flagged floor and harsh lighting, while adding nothing to the ambience, certainly didn't deter the punters who piled in - and out - at an alarming rate, stretching the capabilities of the single, young waitress who deserves a special mention for her indefatigable good humour and efficiency in the face of overwhelming odds.

Peter having been kept at home babysitting, dining partner duties fell to son Oliver who, as a patron of the Lowry and all places posh in Manchester, is a bit of a stern critic.

From a fairly extensive blackboard menu, Oliver choose a warm salad of duck and crispy bacon to start, which he said was OK, although the bacon was "solid" rather than crisp. My Mediterranean king prawns were more of the young princes variety and, rather than the lemon mayonnaise being served as a dip, which I had expected, they were well and truly smothered in it.

However, we had very little time to dwell on these shortcomings before our main course arrived. And what a contrast. Oliver's monkfish medallions with a timbale of rice in an "elegant" saffron and white wine sauce (£10.95) was everything it was elegantly promised to be. The fish, he said, was perfectly cooked, the sauce nicely understated.

My choice of duck breast in a plum sauce (£9.95) was an absolute triumph. The duck was served pink (as I was forewarned "just in case you weren't expecting it") and was meltingly tender, the sauce simply yummy plummy. Both generous dishes were presented to top-notch hotel standard and were accompanied by crisp, chunky vegetables, new potatoes and a substantial portion of good chips.

Sadly, it couldn't last. The pudding menu was of the laminated list variety, featuring the sort of bought-in ice cream concoctions which are best avoided, although there were a few "house" puddings such as the usual sticky toffee offering, and an amazingly varied choice of coffees. We passed.

A brief encounter: from ordering to paying the modest (£30) bill, it was all over in little more than an hour - considerably speedier than our 40mph, but safe, journey home.