When my shaggy Lurcher, Mossie, gets even a slight scent of sheep or deer on her, she becomes an intense hunter, heedless to my cries and able to navigate any landscape in her chase. As such, our outings in scenic Wicklow often involve her being restrained on a leash.
I find myself heading this way in the hopes of collecting a handful of sessile oak acorns to sprout at home. However, my attention is primarily drawn to mushrooms at this season. My ability to identify various fungus species is unfortunately poor. Each fall, I attempt to memorise a few new types, but the fleeting lifespan of mushrooms causes me to inevitably forget these snippets of knowledge. So, every year, I start over, questioning once again what I’m observing.
Departing from a secondary path, we meander into a small oak forest’s shade, then further down into a broad valley bisected by a swelling river which silently drains into a lake. We trace the river towards the beach where I spot the singular and most symbolic mushroom: the rotund, red fly agaric. Concealed amidst a sandy patch by a silver birch tree, its characteristic silhouette reminds me of a fairy-tale toadstool, rendering it relatively easy to remember. Its dome-shaped cap, with a reddish-orange hue, is adorned with whitish wart-like spots and perched on a beefy white stem a couple inches above ground.
Fly agarics, with their storybook appearance, represent the idea of mushrooms as portals to other realms. They decompose dead material, creating new life. Additionally, their mind-altering characteristics open up different levels of awareness, symbolising a gathering spot for mythical creatures like elves and pixies.
We have seemingly abandoned hope for approximately half of our water bodies, including rivers, estuaries, and lakes. The captivating spectacle of starlings mesmerise during the dreariness of winter. Have you been aware of the recent development where milk bottle tops are now tied? There’s a sensible reason behind this adaptation.
The vision of a single, solitary mushroom, radiating its bold crimson hue in stark contrast to the muted, soft palette of Wicklow, is quite a sight to behold. The quandary persists on whether this sight is one of beauty, threat, or a combination of both. Subsequent research revealed that it’s toxic in nature, bearing striking resemblances to the hallucinogenic death cap mushroom and the venomous, mind-altering chocolate-brown panther cap.
Fly agarics, with their fantastical aesthetics, personify the concept of mushrooms serving as portals to alternative realms. Up close, they emanate a powerful, earthy scent, reminiscent of a dew-soaked forest strewn with fallen foliage accruing in the soil. Its robust, commendable fruiting body stands firm; beneath the earth’s surface, it intertwines with the roots of nearby trees and plants, bound by the web-like mycelium.
Merlin Sheldrake’s book, “Entangled Life,” brilliantly explores the intricacies of mycelial existence. He indicates that a teaspoon of soil contains mycelium that, when unravelled and laid out from end to end, can stretch anywhere between 100 metres to 10 kilometres. Without the help of the intricate mycelial tissue that binds it, the soil would simply wash away with rain. Acting like an immense subterranean spider’s web, these threads probe the soil, decomposing rotting vegetation to release and utilise the stored nutrients. In exchange for sugar, they either entwine with or infiltrate the roots of proximate trees, providing them with moisture and vital minerals.
Farther along the shore, a plump, secluded white orb, a puffball mushroom, seeded with over a trillion spores, nestles in the sandy terrain. There’s an irresistible temptation to nudge it and witness its ‘puffing’ phenomenon. Over time, its silky white exterior will dessicate and acquire a brown tinge, causing the formation of a small crater at its apex. A minor amount of pressure—droplets from a mild drizzle suffice—causes expulsion of the spores through the hole, which resemble a steam engine churning away. A single puff ejects a million spores. However, this particular specimen isn’t prepared for such a display—it continues to sit firmly on the ground, resembling a fresh mozzarella cheese dome.
Whilst traversing across forests, fields, and highways, I notice an absence of a usual sight – mushrooms. It comes as a surprise and makes me wonder if it’s a bad season for them. Could the recent rumblings of large-scale hunting, a practice which lays bare patches of consumable fungi, be true? A few seasons back, the City of London Corporation initiated stringent measures when the high-end restaurant and market demand for wild mushrooms led to the obliteration of age-old mushroom forests (a notable case involved an individual netting a whopping 50kg haul in Epping Forest).
In Ireland’s legally conserved areas, any person wishing to forage is expected to first check with their neighbourhood ranger, says the National Parks and Wildlife Service. Considering the lucrative market for wild mushrooms – wild morels in particular can fetch up to €100 per kilogram – the economic potentials are pretty evident.
We make our way back to the car. A day that initially promised to be dull and uneventful has taken a turn for the better. Mossie, with her mottled light and dark grey coat, rivals the sheer beauty of the sparkling Wicklow granite formations, which date back to a massive 400 million years. Having had enough of a tethered stroll, I lead her home and give her some off-leash time in the neighbourhood park, with the pleasant absence of any sheep or deer to distract her.