Red House Farm, Whitley Bay

May 30 2010 by Eddy Eats, Sunday Sun

WITH petrol prices soaring to unprecedented levels, Mrs Eats and I decided to minimise the amount of driving we did at the weekend when searching for a bit of scran.

The secret to this, we decided, was to kill as many birds as possible with the same stone. In other words, try to find a destination where we had several errands to run at the same time.

We were already booked in to visit pals down the coast and, with the warm weather upon us, also fancied the lightest of strolls to take advantage of the sunshine.

Our friends recommended the Red House Farm, on the Beaumont Park Estate, just off Monkseaton Drive, which leads down to the seafront. We had known it many moons ago as the Shieling and so were eager to see what had changed.

After getting our visits out of the way and the shortest of walks on the prom, we ambled up the road to the pub. By the time we got there, we were starving and I had to rein Mrs Eats in from devouring a bag of peanuts before we’d even ordered. The Red House Farm is now divided into two sections, with the main bar frequented by locals from the adjacent estate, and the restaurant off to the side.

It was evident from the car park that word had spread about this place and people were prepared to travel for the lunch, which is always a good sign.

With it being a Sunday, we were, fairly obviously, eating from the Sunday menu, which was music to both our ears, being fully-signed-up members of the Roast Lovers’ Club.

Having worked up a significant appetite, though, we could not help ourselves but order a portion of potato skins each to kick things off. Everything at the Red House Farm is homemade and that was evident by the skins, which had crisped up nicely on the outside but were wonderfully fluffy on the inside and came with a selection of dips to coat them in before chucking down our necks.

When it came to drinks, I had considered sampling the ales, which included Bombardier, Deuchars and Director, but plumped for a refreshing pint of Foster’s. Mrs Eats was trying to appear sophisticated with her glass of house white wine.

By the time the main courses arrived, the dining area was packed and it seemed the place was a secret that had been well-kept from us.

Although Red House Farm is a pub, the waiting staff made regular visits to our table to offer to replenish our drinks . . . and we took the attitude that it would have been rude not to take them up on their offer.