Normandy

I am compiling a list of the best black puddings. It began in Spain when I encountered my first morcilla de Burgos, a rich, spiced black sausage bulked up with rice. I was smitten. No black pudding could compete with this, I thought. But then I moved to Cumbria and in the flat hinterland of the Solway plain I found a butcher who made trays of the black stuff, studded with nuggets of fat the size of a child’s thumb. A portion of this was a veritable slice of heaven. I’ve sampled Stornoway’s, of course, and a black-pudding Scotch egg, but nothing ranked alongside the twin fruits of Burgos and Great Orton.

Given this enthusiasm, you can imagine my unfettered delight when I learnt that the little town down the road from my Normandy retreat this Easter was renowned above all for itsboudin noir. Chapeau to Mortagne-au-Perche for having such a claim to glory. Now, when there’s a town in the region famous for its black puddings, you could be forgiven for fearing that all else would be diminished — but this neck of Normandy, Le Perche, is glorious all over. It is a place where every farmyard looks like a Corot painting and one expects to see Millet’s wooden-clogged peasants gleaning in the fields while native Percheron horses nobly turn the sod.

We encountered the most contented boy in France in a little bistro in Longny-au–Perche, munching his way through an enormous bavette steak with roquefort sauce, and grinning at us non-stop. He was about ten, and with his striped T-shirt, sophisticated air and evident gastronomic delight, he couldn’t have been more French if you’d slung a string of onions round his neck and popped a Gitanes in his mouth.