I would like to start by saying that if I had known then what I do now I would have not ventured off the foothills of Snowdonia on that grey spring day last year, into a world of grey slate cottages, rain and secret handshakes.
I had previously become acquainted with my companion of that day, when he worked as a chef at a well known hostelry in the town where I lived, and I had sent my complements after finishing a rather tasty and filling meal of lamb shank. He was just going off duty at the time and after purchasing a drink at the bar, came over to my table and introduced himself. That evening we talked about lamb. How the shanks need to be slow cooked to produce their tenderness, and how the redcurrant sauce not only complemented the flavours of the meat, but the acidity neutralised some of the fattiness of the meat. This ensured that all the meaty flavours were retained and only a little fat had to be skimmed off in the cooking. We soon discussed mint sauce, or more correctly "saws mint" bearing in mind our location nestled near a gap in the Clwydian Hills. My new friend bemoaned the fact that commercially grown mint is grown for its vigour, not its flavour, and the varieties used have a sharpness of taste rather than subtlety. Of course, he said, there are those who grow and sell the old varieties of mint, but the true king of mints, the gourmet's choice to accompany lamb dishes, is now illegal at least in those counties where it formerly grew. If I had started to look a little weary of my new friend's dialogue up until then an observer may have noticed me suddenly attentive again. There has always been a rebel inside of me wanting to get out. As a child 'No Ball Games' notices held no threat, and 'Keep off the Grass' was a positive invitation to me. So an illegal culinary herb was just the sort of subject that would catch my interest.

Mentha somniferum grew in the hills of North West Wales I was informed. Previously it struggled to keep a toehold even there for it was not as vigorous or invasive like other species of that genus. Its fate though, is indicated by its Latin name, for this mint has narcotic properties. The sheep farmers would chew the odd leaf or two before bed to ensure a good night's sleep. But some would start the day with leaves and stems with their breakfast, and spend the day between bouts of stupor and chewing. Entire flocks of sheep were neglected during the 1920s when legislation was secretly passed. Ministry of Agriculture herbicide squads struck at dawn across the region spraying the plant wherever it grew. In one weekend an entire species was all but exterminated. Cultivation, if discovered, still attracts a fine far beyond the financial resources of a shepherd.

The chef then leaned closer and lowered his voice. He said that it was inevitable that some still grew wild and those in the know could procure some. It was at this point the conversation became more sinister, but still not enough to deter me from the later events. I was informed that lambs fed on ordinary culinary mint as part of their diet have the taste infused throughout their meat, but if fed Drowsy Mint these flavours are quite superior. However, because of the narcotic effects of the leaves, the amount of Mentha somniferum added to their feed has to start small and be gradually increased. By careful manipulation of the diet, the lambs can be in a permanent and terminal sleep by the time they are sent to market. He then glanced sideways in each direction to ensure no-one was eavesdropping our conversation, and whispered the words 'cig ffres'; fresh meat!

While best steak is left to mature for 21 days or more after butchery, by contrast it is a little known fact that lamb is most succulent at its freshest. The comatose lambs are taken to unlicensed abattoirs down alley ways behind the high streets of small towns. They are butchered to order whilst asleep and meat couriered immediately to the restaurant for cooking.

So I found myself in Ffestiniog, an unremarkable monochrome village off the tourist routes and where the streets can be deserted by half past six in the evening. A drizzle that just stopped short of being called a downpour dampened my spirits almost as effectively as it shrouded the surrounding mountains; the mountains that ensured that even in high summer, sunset occurred about 2 hours earlier than it should. It was April and it was already darkening. The pale light from the ineffective lamps that were too widely spaced along the back alley we found ourselves gave meagre illumination. We stopped at an unmarked doorway, hidden in the grey shadows, and my friend who made all the arrangements gave complex knock on the door. The door opened slightly. I could see a chain. Some words were quietly spoken in Welsh and we were admitted and led to a table by a man in a dark suit, white apron and green dickie bow. My friend whispered to me was called “y siambrlen”. We were in a room with one heavily curtained window with subdued lighting. I could not help noticing how the tables and chairs were arranged so that diners on different tables did not face each other. You could not easily watch someone else eating, but neither could others watch you. Eating here was a personal voyage. There was no menu; only one dish was served. The smell of roasting meat was strong in the air and mouth-watering, with subtle overtones of an aromatic herb which I assumed to be those of this illicit plant. The only noise was the chink of cutlery on plates or muffled sounds from the kitchen, until there was a crash as one diner seemingly had dozed off mid meal, woken with a start and grabbing at the white linen tablecloth dragged everything on the table onto the floor. The waiting staff quickly helped the diner out of the room and all was tidied up within a minute or two. I concluded this may be a regular occurrence and they were well practiced.

I had been warned before arrival that cig ffres is served rare. Or rarer than rare, just barely browned on the outside, so believed I was prepared when our plates arrived with a lamb steak, delicately sliced, in the centre of the plate, with a few inconsequential vegetables, two small roast potatoes and a variation of onion sauce made with leeks. Despite the apparent lack of any mint, the aroma arising from the meal of that herb was almost dizzying. The lamb steak had a small pool of red juices around it. I picked up my knife and fork, but was really unprepared for meat this rare. For as I put my fork into the first slice it first gave a twitch and then a sudden convulsion as if it were trying to escape from the plate. The other slices, in unison, flapped and contorted on the plate like dying fish on a river bank.