The garden has become alive with fungal outgrowths, a rich result of prolonged warm, wet weather. I don’t even need to look to know they are there, as a rich umami smell drifts into my nostrils. They are difficult to find at first. The grass is covered by big heart-shaped poplar leaves, all yellow but as varied in shade as a rainbow, and they create a fiendish spot-the-fungus game. But with a closer look I find them.
My eye is drawn to a saucer-sized toadstool, looking like a pie crust with a dip in the middle holding a pool of water and two golden birch leaves. The top is pale, tan coloured and rusty veins reach out to the edges.
So far, I’ve taken a human view, looking down from my two-legged heights. I want to get closer but the ground is spongy and wet; to avoid damp getting into my knees I fetch a mat to kneel. From underneath, I see an inverted dome of fine membranous gills, burgundy, arranged vertically with deep dark fissures between them. They are like the edges of sheets of paper that have dried and curled in the sun. I feel tentative about touching this thing, that is neither a plant nor an animal. I don’t know what type of fungus it is, whether it might be poisonous. But I reach out gently and feel a short stalk, with a slight knuckle where it meets the ground. It feels hollow and soft when I give it a cautious squeeze. I move up to the top, again giving it a careful squeeze. The upper surface dimples and the texture is spongy, but firmly so, pushing back out to its original shape when I let go.
I wonder about picking the toadstool to get an even closer look but, like picking flowers, it feels a bit forbidden. Besides, I still don’t know what this thing is, or how much longer I want to spend in its company. So I leave it to waft its spores and mushroom-scented aroma. Maybe it will be dinner for a different garden visitor.
Mudwriter 