It’s early morning.  Crisp with the first tinge of autumn, but dazzlingly beautiful.  I’m walking in our back meadow, dew soaking my feet and a low sunrise veiled in twisting mist.

Later cloud will cast the sky and rain will spit for a while, but for now I am in the quite of Eden scouring the meadow aftermath, not for apples to precipitate the fall of man, but for the white pearls of the night, mushrooms!

All the fruits of field and forest and hedgerows are ripening in the still warm sunshine and surrounded by such plenty I for one feel guilty at not accepting the gifts of this bounteous harvest which is why we have been living on blackberries, apples, plums and now mushrooms for the past couple of weeks!

Both Nearest and Dearest and me come from a long line of mushroomers and we have gathering off to an art form!  N & D cut his mushrooming teeth in the company of the village poacher who would drag him out of bed at four in the morning to raid the local farmer’s fields.

I also was hauled out of bed at four in the morning, to chase off said mushroomers and gather up their ill-gotten gains!   My grandpa was convinced they were selling their spoils to the local fishmonger.  Not sure why a fishmonger would be selling mushrooms, but things like that happened in the sixties when I was growing up.

The mushrooms in our field grow in patches as is their wont and we’ve fallen into a daily pattern of one or the other getting up early to reap the harvest.  You have to pick in low light or preferably the dark otherwise you struggle to see them. The more you pick them the less chance they have to get grub ridden and ours are now in prime condition, though we pay for it later with jaw splitting yawns!

Good things they say, are meant for sharing, but I don’t hold with that as far as mushrooms are concerned!  Ours get a quick wash and straight into the pan with some thick bacon and are long gone before anyone knows we ever had them!