Her Majesty's Veggie

Photograph: Eduard Korniyenko/Reuters


In 1977 I was poaching in the River Dee a little down stream from Balmoral Castle.

It was a beautiful day, the Queen was otherwise disposed and anyway I was full of republican fervour. I was ready to take political issue if challenged and even better, if things turned nasty, prepared to run like the wind.

I caught a Salmon, my first ever.

I had started fishing when I was about 17- a bi-product of my friendship with Bob, whose family had moved from the town of our birth and shared childhood to Winchester. He lived alongside the River Itchin and he instructed me in the art of rod, line, spinner, floats and maggots. Under his tutelage I had rapidly progressed from hooker of thorny bank side bush behind me, to illegal snarer of Her Majesty’s Salmonindae.

So I knew how to kill, gut, clean and cook them.

But, and it was a big but, when I hit this Salmon over the head and killed it – it looked at me.

And I resolved to become a vegetarian.

To begin with I was an Imgbmieiv (if-my-girlfriend-buys-meat I’ll eat it vegetarian) and slowly I progressed to being a Tacomthv (that’s a cop out must try harder vegetarian) and finally an Ioepimptmtarv (I only eat prawns if my parents take me to a restaurant vegetarian) before going the whole way and stopping and wearing canvas shoes.

Over the years my resolve has softened, partly explained here, and now I’m a Sovan ( sort-of-vegetarian).

On Sunday a neighbour invited me to stop and have lunch. I did.

We had a lovely homemade gaspacho soup, cucumber salad and fresh sun ripened tomatoes to die for, and fresh baguette.
Then he brought out a pan of barbecued boudin noir.

Boudin Noir? – think fresh hacked black pudding slowly simmered in blood and you’d be close.

Then on Monday I saw this picture in the newspaper.

I’m off for a fig.