La Grande Motte, France, June 1968: sea bass

To be quite honest, I don't really remember the date and I'm not that sure of the place, either. I was in a press party of about dozen taken by the French government to Languedoc-Roussillon, the poor cousin of the Riviera, now being opened up for tourism. They had zapped the mosquitoes in the local ¿tangs, or lakes, and built new resorts along a magnificent coastline with miles of sandy beaches and, of course, the Camargue.

The press party quickly conformed to type: there emerged a leader, a scapegoat and a comedian. The two women in the party grew steadily more desirable as time went by and were paid an increasing amount of attention by the men. We drank pastis and supped on bouillebaisse. We strolled through ancient towns and visited Roman remains.

The days passed in a blur of pleasure. One day we were taken to lunch beside the beach at La Grande Motte. The venue looked unpromising. In fact it seemed little more than a large hut with a verandah. The front section was filled with working men tucking into heaped plates, which I should have recognised as a favourable omen. We were seated round a large table at the rear. After the usual preliminaries a smiling countrywoman appeared, bearing a platter on which nestled a large sea bass in a bed of tinder-dry brushwood gathered from the beach. She explained she would set light to the wood which would flare up and burn just long enough to cook the fish. She returned in triumph to show us the sea bass cooked, sitting on a still smouldering bed, before taking it away again to be divided into portions.

I had never tasted fish so delicious before, and never did again, with the possible exception of a sole straight from the sea in Donegal and prepared by a trainee hotel chef, a girl aged 18. With the fish they served a white vin des sables, from Sauvignon grapes grown on the sandy soil of the Camargue. In my euphoric state it tasted of nectar, crisp, cool, subtle, delicious. Since then, I have drunk many a white wine which was doubtless finer and certainly more expensive but none that has ever pleased me quite as much.

I have never seen a vin des sables on sale in this country, but in May I returned to the Camargue, spread across the delta of the Rh¿ne with its white horses, bulls and pink flamingoes. The vineyards carpeted the ground in the bright green of late spring. Everywhere were signs advertising rival vins des sables and, in Les Stes-Maries-de-la-Mer, I found a shop selling the produce of Domaine de la Malgue. The lady behind the counter was coy; she did not wish to give her name. But her patron, the proprietor, was Jacques Ramain of Aigues-Mortes, and she proudly showed me the certificates attesting that his vins des sables had won two gold medals at this year's young farmer's show.

We tasted three: a white, from the Sauvignon grape, a red from Cabernet Sauvignon, and a gris de gris (slightly lighter than ros¿) from Cabernet. They couldn't quite bear the weight of recollection I had placed on them. But they were still crisp and refreshing and, at around three euros a bottle, excellent value. The bottles I brought home are sitting in the fridge; sometime soon I shall uncork them and remember once more a golden time more than 30 years ago.