LIFE IN A FRENCH VILLAGE
I Found Magic Amidst the Mushrooms
Not of the psychedelic kind . . .
Early morning on the first day of December. As usual, I preferred to stay in bed instead of accompanying my partner and the dog on their daily walk. And, as usual, I was glad I’d dragged myself up and gone along.
After the showy blaze of autumn colours, winter can seem dull and monochrome, the blue Mediterranean sky turns sullen, and the sun takes a break. But along the forest trail, a few damp days had created a bit of magic.
Mushrooms everywhere. Overnight, up they come with their slender stalks and frilly caps, their colours of russet and cream. Back in Washington state, I’d briefly joined a mycological group, although not long enough to identify more than a few obvious specimens — the easily recognised morel, like a small pinecone and the apricot-hued chanterelle; both topped the hunters’ list of favourites. The catch-all term for mushrooms that couldn’t be identified was LBJ — little brown job. The Audubon Society, to which I also briefly belonged, had a similar term for difficult to identify birds.
