LAST week I made mention of York- shire puddings – which got me thinking regional. Yorkshire pud- dings have survived the test of time, but hang on there; Yorkshire isn't the only county in England, or indeed the British Isles, to boast a local cuisine.

The French call it provincial cooking – certain dishes allied to specific areas of the country. So what about the West Country? What great delicacy do we have to tempt the taste buds of the discerning epicurean – or even your average greedy guts? Why, the faggot, of course!

Now those of tender years may not have heard of this great delight of belly-filling goodness. Those of you who are a little older may connect the name with that puny offering lying frozen and ready-cooked in the supermarket deep-freeze. The latter bears more resemblance to an Italian meatball than the true West Country faggot. No mass-produced faggot can compare to the real thing. I should know, I used to make them – well not exactly me, but I used to help my mother.

As any harassed mother will know, help from a sprog of any age is akin to hindrance, but I did my best. What's more, I remember how faggots were made, using raw ingredients without an additive in sight.

This is how it went; a trip to Stan Butts the butcher in Bedminster, Bristol. Here you could buy fresh pigs' tails and trotters straight from Mendip farms, whole ox hearts from beef raised around Dulverton and chickens raised in South Gloucestershire.

But these great delicacies – tasty as they were – were not what you were there for. You were there to purchase the delectable ingredients that went into a West Country faggot – a proper West Country faggot.

One other commodity you couldn't do without was a mincer. The mincer was turned by hand and into it went ox or pig's liver, lights (ox lung), onion and dried breadcrumbs, plus seasoning to suit personal taste. The basic idea was that you minced it all up then rolled the resulting mixture into balls – think something the size of a cricket ball – pretty big compared to Italian meatballs. Not surprising seeing as the Italians do not play cricket. If they do, they never make it to the First Test.

Once you were at the balls of mince stage, it was time to cut up the caul. Don't ask me where caul comes from. I do know it's a membrane, a funny, fibrous, fatty veined stuff that the cow must need to hold everything together. Anyway, you have to cut it into pieces big enough to form a covering for the mince.

After that, simply put it into the oven and wait for the rich aromas to fill the house.

My mum, God bless her, knew all the old West Country greats. She just knew how stuff got thrown together; never mind weighing and measuring the ingredients, she didn't do any of that. The proof of the pudding is in the eating and we ate whatever was put in front of us.

Faggots weren't the only West Country delicacy. Does anyone know whether you can still get toe rag? Don't know what it is? Toe rag is dried skate and used to be bought on a Saturday, put in to soak overnight and eaten for breakfast the following day. It resembled the salt- encrusted snowshoes of a creature the size of Big Foot.

Sutee duff (suet pudding, wrapped in a cotton cloth and steamed for hours), doughboys (dumplings) and muggets have all disappeared. So all hail the faggot – such as it is.