The oyster mushroom sprang into being at the bottom of Mt Elphinstone. I find them on fallen alder. I see them as typewriter keys, an echo of Agnes.
Soft keys, in the damp winter weather.
I pick them without my basket or my knife, just prying with my fingers every other one.
Handfull of winter. Like the clammiest snowball.
That day I also found this fungorum: http://foragerchef.com/fungorum-an-ancient-book-of-mushrooms/
And read with interest about the fungiphile who wrote it 250 years ago. And carved an equal number of mushroom species out of copper to make the engravings. At a time when fungi were associated with devilry.
I’d like this whole project to have that kind of association, if it conferred on this forest the power to ward off unwanted attention.