It's one of those sparkling sunny autumn days. The early morning air has a cold snap to it, but the sun has warmth that buoys the spirits. It's an Indian summer that has been briefly broken by a couple of days rain. Now the sun is back and it's a perfect day for mushrooms. All the signs are there, the twinkling dew drops, the slight mist lifting from the fields as the air warms. This will dissipate leaving the air crystal clear, as all the dust has been laid by the rain. The dark rich earth of freshly ploughed fields is covered with the gossamer threads of a million newly hatched money spiders, launching themselves into space on the slightest breath of wind.
Turning down the lane, he branches right into the gated road. Unlatching the gate, he passes through and closing it carefully behind him enters a brilliant red, gold tunnel. The road is lined with horse chestnut trees, their dying leaves, every shade of yellow, orange, red, through to bronze, reflect and mask the sun dappling through them. Small drifts of leaves cross the road, dotted here and there with spiky conker husks. The occasional one is split open to reveal white pith and the rich shiny brown of the nut within.
After a quarter of a mile or so the chestnut avenue ends with a muddy duck pond and a chocolate box brick and oak frame cottage on the right. The lane bends left, then right again and passes through a field, the grass cropped short by grazing animals, though none are there now. On the left of the lane, almost in the centre of the field is a small grove of trees. It's just like the groups that mark ancient sites though the field is pretty flat and there are no signs of earthworks here. Leaving the lane he wanders slowly across the field, his head moving from side to side, scanning the ground in front of him. After five minutes or so, "There." he spots a small mushroom and bending plucks it carefully. He turns it over to inspect the colour of the gills, grey, brown, "Perfect." No sign of bugs chewing their way up the stalk. Popping it into his mouth he chews it slowly and thoughtfully. It has a delicate mushroomy taste, slightly earthy, and a rather chewy texture. He moves on and in a minute or so spots another and picks and eats that too. After he has eaten about five, he begins to see the mushrooms everywhere. Their honey coloured skin and distinctive nipples glow in the green grass as if illuminated with inner light. He is now near the grove and the mushrooms dot the ground before him, some in almost perfect fairy rings. He becomes more selective, picking only the plumpest and most perfectly formed ones. Like the breasts of a dark skinned fairy queen. After he has eaten about a dozen, he plucks a few more and stores them in a brown paper bag.
Although the mushrooms still shine out at him, his attention is spreading outwards. Everything around him is taking on an intense presence. All his senses seem heightened and tuned to the abundance of life and energy that surrounds him. He can almost feel the plants growing, their leaves stretching up to the sunlight, their roots reaching down into the soil, the rumbling tremors of a passing earthworm, chewing its way through the ground. The air itself seems to dance in front of his eyes. He chews and swallows to summon up some saliva in his dry mouth and notices a slightly acid taste in the back of his throat.
He is wandering aimlessly round the field now, roughly circumnavigating it, but readily distracted. "What is that incredible rich earthy smell?" He approaches the dead shell of an ancient oak. Only bits of the trunk are left, vestiges of gnarled bark cling in places. The inside is gone, rotted out years ago. Yet even this dead thing radiates life and energy. It vibrates in front of him almost as if he can see its very atoms pulsating. He is trembling slightly himself, though not from fear. His wandering brings him back to the tarmac of the lane and he moves slowly down it, marvelling at the beauty of everything, sunlight, colour, texture, birdsong. The road goes through a gate and winds down a hill, through another field and then into a wood.
He branches off again, this time to the right on a small path. On his right is the field he has just walked through, sparkling in the sunshine. Above him and on his left is the gloom of a plantation, Norway spruce or somesuch. The rich earthy smell fills his nose again, radiating from the composting needle covered forest floor. Here are mushrooms too. On the edge of the wood is the elegant brown and creamy coloured parasol. He veers of the path and into the dark. All the lower branches of the trees are gone, killed by the gloom and it's easy walking on the springy needle bed. The mushrooms glowing here are more sinister looking, cold white, deadly glistening purple they phosphoresce in the murk. Suddenly he is through the dark of the evergreens and into a stand of oak and beech. The ground is undulating here and a small stream bubbles busily along. It bounces down to a waterfall, so artfully arranged, surely it must have been landscaped. He works his way down and sits on a slab of moss covered stone at its base, watching the water drop in glittering strings, ten feet, to splash into the pool below. The whole scene is washed in greeny gold light filtering from above.
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