Travels with Delia: Prunes

The place seemed to be a forgotten back road, a hidden valley that rests along the banks of a gentle yet stately river called the Lot, a small tributary of a much larger but less interesting river called the Garonne. The beauty of this region is that somehow it has managed to stay untarnished by modern times. The rugged, sometimes thickly wooded slopes on either side of the river still have medieval villages perched on the heights, from which you can gaze down at the whole sweep of the river, itself still covered with time-worn stone bridges. Everything looks very old and very underpopulated.

And certainly when discerning foodies of the world mention prunes, they have to be Agen prunes – or, more correctly, pruneaux d'Agen. However, Agen, the bustling port and market town upriver is not where they actually come from. Originally they were packed and exported by canal from there, hence the name, but it is right here in the Lot valley in the heart of Gascony that Agen prunes were, and still are, produced by some 3,500 small family producers.

This is a special variety of plum called Ente, which has a very sweet flesh (I know because I'm eating them as he speaks). In fact, provided there's lots of sunshine, the sugar content can be as high as 21-30 per cent. The seedling trees begin to give a good harvest at 10 years old and go on yielding for up to 25 or 30 years. There are, of course, good years and bad years, depending on the frost, which can destroy early blossoms. For the best results, plenty of rain is needed in June and, after that, lots of southwestern sunshine. Then – the only sign so far that this is actually happening in the 21th century – a sort of tractor appears, with large pincers attached to it. This grasps the plum tree round its trunk and, after a vigorous five-second vibrating, an amazing purple shower rains down to the ground, ready for gathering.

Turning a plum into a prune is a special skill. It is not – as some suppose – a question of dehydration. If that were the case, all you would get is a dehydrated plum, not a prune, which is something quite different. There is as much skill involved in making a prune as in making jam, since it is a question of cooking the fruit to the right degree. In fact, a prune is just like a mini pot of jam, because inside it contains all the concentrated plum – still a totally pure and natural fruit, nothing added, nothing removed. Gérard positively sparkles with enthusiasm as he goes on to explain that a prune is the best energy-giving fruit of all: you can eat prunes for energy anywhere, any time (witness the fact that they were supplied to sailors on long voyages as much for their energy value and protection against scurvy as for their exceptionally long shelf life).

Our next call is on the Vergnes family, third-generation prune producers. As we arrive at the old fortified farmhouse (which dates back to the 13th century), this time set back from the river, there are truckloads of pink-purple plums arriving from the orchards and looking like jewels as the afternoon sun catches them. This is where they will be transformed into prunes, and it will take 3-4 kilos of plums to make 1 kilo of prunes.

Madame begins ordinarily enough, with a bowl containing about a pound of flour, some eggs, oil and water, and proceeds to make a rather soft dough, which is then transferred on to a floured linen cloth. She begins the work of kneading the dough for 25 minutes, her hands spread-eagled, each finger to the very tip sensitive to the task of transforming the dough, the movements repetitive and rhythmic. At the end of this seeming marathon the dough is brushed with oil to prevent it from cracking and wrapped in a new linen cloth to rest for three to four hours.

Our last call is to a traditional farm of the region: it could be a stage setting, the last bastion of rural France. Surely the EC is unheard of here? But, no, the farm is real – old bicycles that have seen better days are propped up against the wall, there's a laden pomegranate tree growing round the farmhouse door, and everywhere animals are being nurtured for the table. The Esposito family produces all its own food (apart from sugar and coffee), and Madame still cooks on a wood fire. They not only produce their own prunes in a wood-burning oven in an outhouse but – and this is the best bit – they make their own eau de vie de pruneaux, a bottle of which is opened to welcome us. As we sit around the farmhouse table in the humblest of surroundings, sipping the pungent liquid amid lots of laughter as the Gascony sun sets, my affection for this wonderful country and its passion for good things to eat, drink and share has been deepened yet further.