London no longer had a monopoly on the resources derived from the area around Henley. During Tudor times Oxford had begun to shake itself out of its medieval torpor. Six new colleges of the university were founded in the 1500s, including that on the largest site, St. John’s. Many Oxford colleges held land, including woods, in the Chiltern Hills, and their meticulous written records often provide the best hard evidence pertaining to the use of the natural resources that supported the scholars. Some of these ancient ownerships survive today, and names like “College Wood” or “Queen’s Wood” on the map around Henley make the connection plain. Even that great impediment to riverine trade, the southerly loop that diverted the River Thames, had begun to yield to determined traffic. The probate inventory of a trader called Thomas West (d. 1573/74) proves that at least some commercial river craft were able to make the journey from Henley upstream as far as Culham, south of Oxford, although the final stretch into the city still defied navigation.4 Notwithstanding these brave essays, it would be many decades before the special role of Henley as a centre of trade diminished. Meanwhile, the southern part of the Chiltern countryside was becoming part of a larger world, just as the Knollys linked Greys Court with the diplomacy and adventures that founded Elizabeth I’s global ambitions. It wasn’t just volcanic eruptions that started to stitch the world together.
The Fair Mile, from Burn’s History of Henley-on-Thames, 1861.
Mushrooms
Eruptions are happening again—all over the wood. Candle-snuff fungus erupts from every old stump. In places it looks as if the ground is sprouting white whiskers; on closer inspection the “whiskers” are more like little antlers, with the tips of their tines all dusty with white spores.5 October is the glory time for a fungus-lover. Just the right quantity of rain followed by just the perfect dose of sunshine encourages a frenzied upsurge of mushrooms. They erupt everywhere; pushing out of the leaf litter, decking dead trees and covering much of the old conifer log pile. Where can I even start? A gallery of shapes: some stout and dumpy, some spindly, some solitary and elegant, some densely clustered. Little conical caps with slender stems seem to be designed especially as fairy parasols. Bright colours defy the fading light, for here some ruby-red caps glow like dropped jewels. Troops of tiny mushrooms too numerous to count all seek to throw their spores into the breeze.
One is special to our Chiltern beech woods: saffron drop bonnet (Mycena crocata), eight elegant little mushrooms arising in a line from a fallen log. I break a brittle stem and a spurt of orange juice stains my fingers bright carrot colour. So many kinds of fungi vie for my attention—there must be ten times as many different kinds decorating the leaf litter as there are flowering plants in the same woodland. Many are the regular umbrella mushroom-shape, but some look like clumps of pale-brown upright coral (Ramaria stricta) making a miniature terrestrial reef around a tree stump. White puffballs (Lycoperdon perlatum) sprout as if the ground itself had inflated a series of miniature party balloons from within the humus. A beech branch is decked with tiers of delicate brackets that are softly hairy above, like cats’ ears. Even a dead bramble is ornamented with a rosette of tiny white mushrooms with caps no bigger than my fingernails (Marasmiellus ramealis). Mundane twigs are decorated with delicate mycological beauties that might have been crafted by the masters of Meissen porcelain.
The colours on display span the whole palette except blue—though I have even seen azure mushrooms outside the wood. Some mushrooms are white as cartoon ghosts, others as brilliantly red as a slapped cheek, or yellow as egg yolk—but then there are others that are paler, more like clotted cream. There is even a green mushroom (Russula virescens—green cracked brittlegill), though it is an unearthly green that has nothing to do with the green of chlorophyll, the tint of photosynthesis. This fungus is coloured by a completely different pigment, cheekily assuming the livery of flowering plants. Every shade of brown that can be imagined is here, from umber to tan, so many tiny things that hardly stand out among the leaves, discreet as if they wish to evade discovery. They are referred to in the trade as LBMs (little brown mushrooms), and a good measure of dedication is required to identify them. Many forayers just pass them by, but they are a precious component of our diversity, so I shall persist with them. There are even black fungi, the colour of death (like Xylaria polymorpha, “dead man’s fingers”), but these are not morbid—indeed, they have just sprung to life. Some mushroom caps glisten all smooth and shiny in the autumnal sunlight, while others have a strange gleam when the thick slime that covers them is illuminated. Tiny toadstools spring from single leaves, like a parade of pins. In October the wood is briefly a polychromatic pageant, when the fungi reach their reproductive apogee. It is the mushroom-fancier’s brief heaven.
If only mushrooms announced themselves in their true colours. For those interested in eating them, only red is a warning, as red mushrooms are, in general, poisonous. Otherwise, the colour of the caps is irrelevant or even misleading. There are dozens of species with white caps like the field mushroom, and some of them are highly poisonous. The most deadly mushroom of them all—the death cap (Amanita phalloides)—has yet to be found in our wood (though common nearby) and is a special yellow-green. I suppose I find this shade particularly sinister because I know how lethal this mushroom is; but then, I have eaten another green mushroom with relish. To identify mushrooms, closer observation is needed.
Mushroom-enthusiasts soon learn to look under the cap. Most mushrooms have gills there, but some have a spongy surface instead, composed of many tiny tubes, a feature which identifies the boletes. Several species in the wood include one in which the tubes bruise blue-green as soon as they are touched. For identification purposes the colour of mushroom gills can be more important than that of the cap. Gills can be white or black or deep pink, or various shades of brown, and even change from one colour to another in some species. Since the gills are effectively spore factories, very often the colour of the gills is also similar to that of the spores—though with fungi there are always exceptions. The experienced field forayer always notices how the gills are attached to the stem: some types of mushroom have gills that stop short of it, others just reach it, others again have gills that run across the underside of the cap to abut the stem directly. Still others have gills that turn towards the ground to run down the stem, giving the whole fruit body a funnel-like appearance. Some fungi have a veil which envelops the young mushroom. As the cap expands it bursts its covering, which may be left as a bag at the base, or breaks up into patches that are scattered over the cap. The white “spots” on the archetypal red toadstool, the fly agaric (Amanita muscaria), are not spots at all; they are fragments of this universal veil that can be moved with a fingernail. Many more mushrooms have another veil that joins the edge of the young cap to the stem. When the cap expands, the remnant is left behind as a ring (annulus) that often hangs down on the stem, or encircles it like a bracelet.
So far the questing mycologist has employed just one of his or her senses: vision. Identifying mushrooms uses all the senses, other than hearing—although if I am completely truthful, I should admit that some fungi do actually speak to me. Touch is important, but hard to describe. Cap surfaces of some fungi have the “feel” of a kid glove, or of velvet. Fingertips respond with the sensitivity of a microscope to details of the cells that make up the surface of the cap. Taste is critical for several identifications, since some very similar-looking fungi betray their identity in the mouth. There is a special way to do the tasting—a tiny piece is nibbled on the end of the tongue long enough to release its characteristic chemicals. In the wood, more than half a dozen species of milk mushrooms (Lactarius) have been discovered; these are fleshy fungi that exude characteristic latex when the flesh is broken. To taste it, a tiny drop of milk on the tip of the tongue usually suffices. Some species are as mild as water, some have a distinctly hot taste, and a few would eclipse a vindaloo curry. Lactarius pyrogalus, growing under hazel, is one of the last kind, and is found i
n the wood. Its Latin name means “fire milk,” which says all you need to know.
Here I must confess to a piece of wickedness. I lead fungus forays around our area, and it occasionally happens that one member of the party is particularly irritating. It might be an over-confident and hectoring individual, but the one that tops the bill is the little man who asks of every fungus we find: “Can you eat it?” while ignoring all the interesting stuff I am attempting to retail about spores, mycorrhiza, rarity, adaptation, etc. The question is particularly exasperating if the mushroom to hand is the size of a daisy, and would require a dozen to make a mouthful. “I need someone to perform a taste test,” I announce, while holding up a specimen of Lactarius pyrogalus. “Can you eat it?” asks Mr. Irritating. “No, but you can taste it,” I reply. A dab of “milk” on the tongue and my tormentor is silenced for an hour.
The most difficult sense is smell. Many mushrooms have a distinctive odour, but few people can agree on what it is. A handful of species do spark an easy consensus: one in our wood is the sulphur knight, Tricholoma sulfureum, which everyone recognises as smelling of coal tar—it positively reeks of road-mending. Mycena pura smells of radishes, and most people recognise the smell, but not without prompting. An allied odour is that of cut potatoes, which is typical of the false death cap, Amanita citrina. The list of smells goes on: pears, pencil shavings, drawing ink and, most implausibly of all, “wet chicken feathers” (Clitocybe phaeophthalma). The matter that exercises me is how the original discoverer came across the analogy. How many people carry wet chickens around with them?
I have now identified well over three hundred species of fungi from my small wood. The list is some measure of the diversity of this great biological kingdom, one that is neither animal nor plant. Lists are very dull, like telephone directories, but every name in a directory leads to the biography of a particular individual, which is much more interesting; and so every wild species has its own special story. In previous chapters the stinkhorn, truffle, chanterelle and sulphur polypore have stepped out from the anonymity of the list. I have spent time with many of the three hundred mushrooms: time collecting, time tasting and sniffing, time in my laboratory at home looking at their spores or gills under a microscope to get their identification correct. If I recounted all their biographies, there would be nothing else in this book. Fortunately, fungi do fall into categories according to how they earn a living—more like a business directory, if you prefer.
Many fungi break down what plants have made: wood, stems or leaves—deconstructing cellulose and turning it into their food. These are the saprobes. Without them, the forest would soon silt up with branches and leaves, and little nourishment would return to the soil. The wood would become impassable. Some of the commonest October mushrooms among the leaf litter are saprobes, often fruiting in fairy rings: toughshanks (Gymnopus) and funnel caps (Clitocybe) appear every year without fail.6 The upright coral (Ramaria stricta) grows from buried wood. Nearly twenty different species of delicate and beautiful bonnets (Mycena) grow on fallen trunks or twigs, or tiny ones even on single leaves.
With fungi, size really doesn’t matter: a mushroom the size of a tack is just as interesting as one the size of a soup plate. A few fungus species are modestly proportioned brownish “weeds,” and are the first to appear along pathsides after summer rainstorms, and as quick to disappear. From dead stumps and sticks erupt tough, bracket-shaped fungi, with pores rather than gills as the site of the spore factories on their undersides; the turkey tail (Trametes versicolor) is the most abundant, and for once the common name is a precise description. The banded fans of this small bracket really do look like flaunted turkey tails. Then there are small saprobes that specialise in feeding on beech cupules: a miniature mushroom, Flammulaster carpophila, and clusters of a white, waxy, disc-like ascomycete (Phaeohelotium fagineum) among them. Other tiny species thrive only on grass stems or on fallen bramble leaves. There is a whole universe of rot and decay in the wood, as the right mushroom seeks its favourite place to grow. This is one reason why many millions of spores are produced—so very few of them will alight in exactly the right place at the right time to germinate into a viable feeding hypha. It is a hit-and-miss affair. Because the fungi see their ecological niches so precisely, an ordinary wood can support hundreds of species. One robust, inedible mushroom (Hebeloma radicosum) is only associated with mouse middens.
A fungus foray in Grim’s Dyke Wood.
Almost as many fungi in the wood are symbiotic with trees, forming mycorrhiza with their roots, to their mutual benefit (see this page). They do not have to produce mushrooms every year if the conditions are unfavourable. The most brightly coloured and conspicuous of these mushrooms are brittlegills (Russula), with a dozen species in the wood, every shade of white, yellow, green, purple, pink or red, sometimes mixed together. One species, the blackening brittlegill (Russula nigricans), changes over several weeks from white to black especially to confuse the bewildered beginner. All brittlegills have a curious texture—the stem snaps in an abrupt fashion when broken, just like a stick of old-fashioned blackboard chalk. This is because the cells that make up the fruit body are minute spheres rather than thread-like, as they are in most mushrooms. The milkcap mushrooms (Lactarius) are a related group of species with a more muted colour range. The commonest one in the wood is a sticky-capped, greenish form with a penchant for beech (beech milkcap Lactarius blennius). Different Lactarius species are associated with oak and with hazel; they are very picky. The wood is not the best place for Amanita—the group that includes the familiar “red-and-white-spotted” fly agaric under which pixies traditionally cavort (A. muscaria). I have found it once on our ground. False death cap (A. citrina) and blusher (A. rubescens) are commonest, and a supposedly rare species (A. lividopallescens) comes up regularly. The largest group of mushrooms of them all, the webcaps (Cortinarius), sport cobweb-like veils, and are strictly mycorrhizal; several kinds occur in the wood, although they are notoriously hard to identify.
So I will be partial, and select the most precious mycorrhizal mushroom for celebration.7 A baby cep is the most satisfying thing to find. Usually, slugs despoil the fruit bodies as soon as they appear, so a perfect one is a true joy. The stem is chunky and fattest towards the base, like a big pestle. It is decorated with a fine white network. It sits comfortably on the hand. The cap is hemispherical, often almost exactly so, with a tan-brown tint of something fresh from the oven, and often with a thin white line around the edge. Pores (not gills) are white, or later yellowish, and do not change colour when rubbed. The whole cep has a solid presence, as if it were the product of a ceramicist rather than of nature. I look for signs of maggots: mushroom flies adore this substantial object as much as humans. Where one cep is found, there are often others around. They might be older, more nibbled and less beautiful, but they will not go to waste. Older specimens have shed nearly all their spores, so they can be picked without a second thought. I have seen Italian farmers guard their ceps with a shotgun over their knees; in Italy there are fungus deaths every year. Not from gunshot, however. They are caused by mushroom-lovers in the mountains tumbling to their deaths after reaching out just a little too far over the edge of a precipice for the perfect baby porcini.
Older ceps are excellent for drying. They will keep for a year (or more), and are easily reconstituted by pouring on a little hot water and waiting. The soaking juice is always used in any cookery that follows. The smell of a jar of dried ceps is reputed to cheer up gloomy Russians (the entire population of the former Soviet Union) in the depths of winter, and indeed does have a wonderful wholesomeness, a promise of all good things. Mature ceps should have the tubes removed from under the cap—they can be pushed off with the thumb (they tend to go soggy). This is the time to discard the wormiest bits, usually the lower part of the stem. How much is thrown away is a matter of individual squeamishness. If you examine packets of dried ceps on which good money has been spent you will surely notice little wandering holes w
here maggots enjoyed their feast. I do not mind a few “uninvited guests”—they turn to dust in the drying process. I cut up all the remaining mushroom into thin slices, a few millimetres thick; plenty of slices from a big cep, then spread out the slices on newspaper (only a good-quality broadsheet will do). I have under-floor central heating that is ideal to complete the process after I have laid the cep-charged papers on it. An airing cupboard is also fine for the purpose. Damp ceps will soon yield a dark patch on the paper, because mushrooms do hold water, especially in damp weather. In a few days the cep slices will have lost all their moisture, and become like those vegetable “crisps” that have become a fashionable alternative to the potato ones. It is very important that they are completely dehydrated before they are put into a Kilner jar, or something similar, for storage. If there is any damp, they will go mouldy and ruin the rest of the crop. If they are completely dry, I push down hard and cram a dozen big ceps into quite a small jar. A handful removed and reconstituted a month or so later will lift a mundane dish into a gourmet treat.
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I DO NOT KNOW why many people are suspicious of fungi. Could it be because they “just appear from nowhere”? Is it because a few of them are so poisonous? Maybe it is because they have an association with rot and decay—that green bread forgotten in the corner, a bad apple dotted with grey, dusty spots. Yet without fungal associations, plants could not grow healthily; without saprobes, cellulose and lignin would swamp the world; without fungal antibiotics, gangrene would be as terrifying now as it was to the Knollys. Yet still I find a trampled mass of orange-brown glistening inkcaps (Coprinopsis micaceus) in the wood, squashed deliberately by a passer-by, as if in revenge for some crime. I can only think of the crime of being strangely beautiful.
The Wood for the Trees Page 18