People talk about an “embarrassment or riches” - a state of affairs which is not, for most of us, a phenomenon that occurs very often. But the phrase did come to mind one day recently after I’d arrived home laden with an abundance of edible goodies, some of them foraged from the wild, and other delicious items grown by vegetable gardeners of my acquaintance. 

There are times when you can only beam at nature’s bounty and admire the treasures which can come out of the soil. Of course, it helps if you’re green-fingered and know how to coax food out of those soils, or you know where to find it out in the wild. 

So there I was admiring my very own mini Harvest Festival, but there was one treat taking pride of place amid the pile of tomatoes, courgettes, peppers, ripe berries and other sundry fresh edible morsels. A rare morsel which had caused my jaw to drop in surprise when I was first shown it. A sublime treat that I never thought I’d ever see this side of the English Channel. 

A big black truffle!

This had not been donated to the Hesp coffers by some wealthy friend who’d just returned from France or Italy - this had been dug from the roots of a mature tree growing somewhere in the Westcountry. I use the word ‘mature’ advisedly because in recent years there’s been a developing market for saplings whose roots have been treated with truffle spores. I do not know if the system works or not, but this was definitely not one of those trees. The person who found it assured me the truffle came from a natural, un-messed-about-with, woodland located not so many miles from where I live in West Somerset. Most of us know enough about truffle-hunting NOT to dare asking for exact locations.

She had collected half-a-dozen fat black beauties, the largest of which was the size of my clenched fist - and knowing of my interest in all things foodie she had emailed me a photo of the haul, captioned: “I’ve just picked these - you can have a couple if you’d like.” 

My interest in edible fungi began 40 years ago and I’ve been happily collecting the likes of delicious ceps and chanterelles from our local wooded valleys ever since. But I’d never dreamed of seeing a local truffle. For two reasons… One: because no one I know, or have ever known, happens to have a specially trained truffle-hunting dog or pig. And, two: because I’d always been led to believe these highly prized underground morsels only flourish in limestone or chalk soils - and they do not occur in our part of Somerset.  

I was vaguely aware that some kind of truffle-hunting tradition had once existed in this country, but I’d understood that it was confined to the great limestone belt which swings east from the Devon-Dorset border. 

So… A mystery.

I decided to do some research. And there on a French website was a note saying that truffles do indeed grow in certain types of sandstone soils which happen to dominate swathes of Devon and also my part of Somerset. 

So these delicious morsels are out there! Like hidden treasure. Buried unseen. Forever safe from prying hands thanks to years of leaf-mould and undisturbed woodland soil…   

Which begs the question as to how my friend discovered her treasure trove. When I called by to see the haul and collect the gift I’d been offered, I found myself casting a suspicious eye over one of the family’s dogs. A large poodle-ish canine, more-or-less of the type used by professional truffle hunters in parts of France and Italy. My suggestion was met with laughter. No, the dog had certainly not been involved in the find - although, now I’d mentioned it, perhaps it would be a good idea to train the family pet in what could become a lucrative endeavour…

So all I know, dear readers, is what I was told in a single sentence: “I was helping to dig a woodland garden where the soil was as black as the truffles themselves - and that’s where I found them, on the roots of a few trees.” 

She thought these may have been hazelnut and birch, or beech. Three of the truffle’s favoured host trees. And the West Country is rich in them! So how many of these fabulous morsels are lying hidden out there in the countryside? And how can we foodies and fungi enthusiasts ever hope to find a single one?

The answer is probably millions of truffles, forever safe from our marauding intentions. How many of us ever get to dig a woodland garden in just the right place? How many of us are ever going to purchase, or train, a truffle-dog?

My friend might be able to return to her secret spot and harvest a few more in years to come - or maybe not - I’m no expert on how the truffle-hunting and harvesting cycle works. But I am fairly certain this discovery, and its resultant newspaper article, is unlikely to inspire a burgeoning new Westcountry truffle industry. Unless someone invents a device which is sensitive to truffle scent, how are we going to find them?

Which is a pity, because the well-truffled scrambled eggs I enjoyed after taking my gift home were the best I’ve ever had - and the well-truffled chicken was an absolute sensation.

ENGLISH TRUFFLE HUNTING

English truffle-hunting has a history stretching back centuries. We’ll never know who first found these ugly-looking but delicious underground fungi and learned to use them in food preparation, but it seems probably that foragers must have developed some kind of skill when it came to finding these elusive morsels.

By the 18th and 19th centuries, truffle-hunting had become a well organised rural pursuit. The use of animals to help in the search became increasingly common. While pigs were often employed in continental Europe, English truffle-hunters only used particular breeds of dog. The benefit being that canines could be persuaded not to eat the truffles once they found them, while pigs would scoff the lot given half a chance.

It was always a niche activity, partly because the English market for truffles was always small compared to their massive popularity in mainland Europe. Apart from our love for common field mushrooms, we never did seem to copy our Continental neighbours in developing a universal liking for exotic fungi. Nevertheless, English truffles did find their way into the kitchens of the big country estates and occasionally into the London markets.

Which is why we had professional truffle-hunters. The Wiltshire parish of Winterslow, near Salisbury, was a notable hotspot - sometimes described as “the headquarters of English truffling”. At one time the village had as many as a dozen men employed in the industry. Indeed, England’s last dedicated professional truffle-hunter was a Winterslow man. Albert Collins carried on his family tradition until he eventually retired in the early 1930s. 

And the irony is that poor old Albert apparently died penniless. Which today is an amazing fact, seeing that he could regularly bring home daily hauls weighing up to 12 kilos. On the internet this week, “summer” truffles (Tuber Aestivium) were selling at prices starting from £335 per kilo!

You can easily become confused when looking up the different types of darker truffle, but if we imagine Albert was harvesting the milder tasting forms (like the ones my friend found) then, at today’s prices, his single day’s work would have earned him around £2000. If they were the more expensive and sought-after species he could have been paid just over £4000 - that’s more than £25 grand a week!

COOKING WITH WEST COUNTRY TRUFFLES

Think truffle, and a lot of home-cooks will imagine something that has an extremely strong and, unless used sparingly, overpowering flavour. I remember buying a black truffle in Italy and using a small amount (a few ultra-thin shavings) in a simple pasta dish. It was almost too much - so strong, the kids wouldn’t eat it.

But the fresh wild West Country truffle I tasted this week (I believe it was a black autumn truffle, Tuber uncinatum) was at the other end of the spectrum… It was extremely mild, nutty and, of course, fungi-flavoured, and it had almost a sweet finish. 

You need quite a bit to change the flavour of a large bowl of food, unless it is dominated by something bland such as plain pasta, or perhaps basic scrambled eggs. 

I made a luxury version of the latter this week using a neighbour’s free-range eggs, a knob of good butter, a tiny tot of cream, a few chives and a wedge of black West Country truffle. The examples found by my friend had an extremely firm texture, so that if you cut off thin slices with a sharp knife, they were easy to shatter into crumbs. I added two teaspoonfuls of the resultant truffle-crumb to the slowly melting butter in the pan, before introducing a couple of beaten eggs and just a spoonful of double cream.  Then it was a matter of extreme slow-cooking over a tiny flame, plus a little seasoning with sea-salt and white pepper.    

Loaded onto a buttered slice of my own toasted homemade sourdough, I had a breakfast dish worthy of the kind of hotel frequented by billionaires. 

I also loaded slivers of truffle, along with wedges of butter, just under the skin of a free-range chicken, which I then slow-cooked in the barbecue. The result ticked just about every box on the perfect summer luncheon wish-list. The meat was light, juicy, creamy and deeply savoury. It doesn’t get much better than that.