We all know that black pudding is made from blood. But I often think when I eat a Scottish black pudding that the pig who provided the blood must have died of a heart attack, given the amount of fatty matter that is included.

Now that may be more natural for a pig than to be slaughtered but from my selfish viewpoint I prefer the sort of black pudding that I ate in Poitiers the other day. It could have contained nothing put pure healthy blood that had been harvested as it gushed from a neatly sliced throat. Accompanied by a delicious portion of mashed potato and half an oven baked apple it was a lunch to die for. And my thanks to the pig who did.

I was in Poitiers on a rest day between rounds of golf at a very pretty golf course in Vienne, where incidentally I can heartily recommend the golfers’ lunch. Fifteen euros will get you three tasty courses, a glass of wine and a coffee. The second time I lunched there my main course was wild Scottish salmon. How come I can’t get that in Edinburgh for 15 euros by itself never mind as one course out of three? Should you wish to brighten up your mashed potato by the way try mixing in some purée of split peas.

As I write this I am hearing of the death of Egon Ronay. His life is over but his work is not yet finished.