After dreaming of Ceps (Boletus edulis) and Fly Agarics (Amanita mascaria) I took myself to a well-walked woodland in the Blackdown Hills which seemed like a good place to search for fungi. I didn’t expect to find much, but the dream was so vivid that it felt remiss to ignore it. At the time, I had no idea that the two species frequently grow alongside one another, both having mycorrhizal relationships with Birch and conifers. People who’ve been mushrooming for a while know this, of course, but I’ve come to mushrooming a bit late in life, meaning that there are some large gaps in my knowledge – gaps which which I am keen to close. Nevertheless, although I’d never found one on my own before, I was confident that I could identify a Cep. I spent hours perusing images of them in books and online, often seeing forager’s baskets full of this coveted species, and I’d read and re-read their description and habitat. And as for Fly Agarics, their red cap and white spots are so distinctive that I’d be hard pushed to misidentify them (although I have read that there is a look-a-like in the United States, the Peach Amanita, Amanita persicina.)
It was a mild September afternoon. Siskins and Goldcrests called from the canopy as I walked along and, once I’d lost the hoards of dog walkers on the main loop by the car park, I started to enjoy myself. The first mushrooms I stumbled across were Tawny Grisettes (Amanita fulva). They’re handsome fungi, edible when cooked, but not one that I find appealing. They look a little insubstantial to me, and being part of the Amanita family, which contains some extremely poisonous mushrooms, decreases their allure. I then found some Charcoal Burners (Russell cyanoxantha), another edible, followed by an entire glade of False Chanterelles (Hygrophoropsis aurantiaca). These are also edible, but only for some people. For others, they cause alarming symptoms and hallucinations, so they’re very much best left off your plate. False Chanterelles are pretty mushrooms, apricot in colour with decurrent gills, and seeing so many of them lifted my hopes. If the False Chanterelles were fruiting in such profusion, perhaps other species would be too.
Further along the track I noticed The Blusher (Amanita rubescens) under a stand of young Sitka Spruce. I squeezed under the trees and found lots of them, all in pristine condition. I guess the prickly, needle covered floor and low branches kept the slugs and deer away. Blushers are impressive mushrooms, large with dusky pink, spotted caps and pleated skirts around the stem (known as a stipe in the mushrooming world). I’m very fond of them.
And then, as if they’d materialised out of thin air, Amethyst Deceivers (Laccaria amethystina). Lots of them, all peeking through the leaf litter, and strangely difficult to spot at first despite their purple colouring.
Alongside the deceivers were young Scarletina Boletes (Neoboletus praestigiator) which I think must surely be rated as one of the most beautiful Boletes. With a swede-like brown cap and red stem fading to white, they also have the impressive trick of turning bright blue when cut in half.
All these three species are edible, but special care must be taken with The Blusher, so as not to confuse it with a Panther Cap (Amanita pantherina) and the Scarletina Bolete, which could be confused with the Devil’s Bolete (Robroboletus satanas). As for the Amethyst Deceivers, although I might change my mind, I currently think they’re too pretty (and small) to eat. And of course, if you do consider eating any wild mushroom, please make sure you research them thoroughly before ingesting them.
I dragged myself out from under the Spruce, getting my hair thoroughly tangled in the low, spiky branches on my way, and rejoined the path.
A few paces later and there it was. My first self-found Cep. It was unmistakable – a chestnut brown cap and bulbous stipe, covered in a fine white reticulation.
And then a few paces on, there was another. Bigger this time and clearly showing its similarities to a bread bun (hence their other name, the Penny Bun). The cap was exceptionally bread-like in appearance, with a thin white band around the edge. And there again on the stipe was that white reticulation.
Surprisingly, they were growing right by the path. Having seen so many pictures of them online in forager’s baskets, it seemed fortuitous that I had stumbled across such a good looking pair that hadn’t already been snapped up by someone else, especially considering their proximity to the pathway. But, as there were only two of them, I thought it best to leave them be.
Further along the path, on a bank surrounded by ferns and rush, I spotted a Fly Agaric. Having not seen one of these mushrooms for years, my heart leapt. It’s no wonder they are such an admired species. That striking red cap sings out from the undergrowth, beautifully opposing the grass and mossy greens. And this Fly Agaric had a companion – an almost perfect Cep (save a few slug holes). But the Cep wasn’t alone – after a little search I found more. All of them freshly emerged and more wonderful than I ever imagined they would be.
Now that I’d found more of them, I felt better about the idea of harvesting a Cep to try. At this point, I hadn’t heard of The Honourable Harvest, but it’s a principle I’ve naturally stuck to all my foraging life. It is a set of rules to abide by when you harvest, including asking permission of what you’re about to take, never taking the first or last of anything, leaving some for others, minimising harm, being grateful and reciprocating with a gift, which all seems entirely sensible and just to me. With this in mind, I chose a medium sized Cep from the troop, gave it a wiggle to see if it would happily detach from the substrate (it did) and gratefully placed it in my bag.
I was on a mushrooming high, not derived from psilocybin (I may try and write about that another time) but from the delight of finding such a prized species. I’m not sure of the chemical this triggered my brain to release, but I suspect I was likely experiencing a rush of endorphins. I grinned from ear to ear. The sun started to set, casting a golden light through the trees, and Ravens croaked above me. I practically floated back to my car.
Then there was the eating.
I have tried Ceps before, but I didn’t prepare them. At the time, I remember being unimpressed by their flavour. The people I was with had raved about them, so my expectations were high, but when I ate them I couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. They’d been cooked in butter, lots of butter (which I stopped eating some time ago) and I wondered if perhaps, with Ceps, you can go one knob of butter too far.
With this in mind, I sliced the Cep I had foraged thinly and cooked it in a mix of olive oil and (vegan) butter – but just enough to give it a crispy edge. I flavoured it with salt, pepper and a little garlic, Once the edges had crisped up, I removed it from the pan and served it as a side dish to our main meal. But a Cep doesn’t make a good side dish. In America, it is called the King Bolete and in kingly style it lorded over the rest of our dinner. The flavour was wonderful. The texture was superb. It was firm without being tough, crispy, meaty, ever so slightly nutty with the tiniest undertone of sweet. In short, delicious.
A few days later, armed with a tripod and DSLR camera, I went back to the place I had found the Ceps with the intention of photographing them. I rushed along the path, stopping only to admire some beautiful lichen along the way. As I reached the first Cep my excitement plummeted. It had been taken, sliced at the base of the stem so that all that remained was a cut stump sticking out of the bank. Its larger companion, which I had hidden under dead ferns during my last visit in the hope that it could spread its spores, had also gone, as had all the others. Every single one had been sliced through and taken. Someone had even removed the Fly Agaric that had so filled me with happiness, although fortunately I did find a few more.
Flooded with disappointment, I searched and searched to see if any Ceps had managed to go undetected. But everywhere I went I found the same cut stumps. Whoever had taken them had been thorough. Eventually, after pushing my way through a lot of undergrowth and traversing a quagmire, I did discover an old, large Cep which had collapsed under the weight of its dinner plate sized cap. It was riddled with insect holes and the pores were long and discoloured. It seemed impossible that anyone would want to forage such an old mushroom, but I hid my pathway on the way out just to be sure.
Once home, I tweeted about my experience. Most people shared my disappointment, adding that they were concerned about the large mushroom harvests they had been seeing online. They worried for the other animals that rely on the fungi, for spore dispersal and, particularly, how removing fungi en masse denies other people the pleasure of seeing them. One reply, however, took a different stance. It claimed that foraging mushrooms could in fact benefit spore dispersal. This intrigued me, so I did some reading. To my surprise, I found this same claim on a few foraging blogs. The idea is that a woven basket full of mushrooms, carried around a woodland or meadow, enables the mushrooms to spread their spores in a much greater area than they would ever manage on their own. Intrigued, I kept digging. One study, carried out over thirty years in Switzerland with over 500 species of mushroom found that:
‘long-term and systematic harvesting reduces neither the future yields of fruit bodies nor the species richness of wild forest fungi, irrespective of whether the harvesting technique was picking or cutting.’
The same study, however, did show that trampling the forest floor reduced fruiting bodies, although the underground mycelia remained unharmed. Another study, carried out in Oregon to monitor the effects of picking Chanterelles (Cantharellus cibarius) over a period of ten years, found that picked Chanterelle plots did slightly better than unpicked plots. And as for harvesting techniques, although there seems to be little difference, experts now suggest pulling is better than cutting, as the remaining stem of a cut mushroom can become a site of infection.
Contrary to my initial response, it now seemed plausible that harvesting wild mushrooms (via pulling) was, in fact, sustainable. Not good news for the Ceps I had found (which, as you’ll remember, had all been cut) but good news for the mushrooms taken by foragers by the basketful.
Now, I know I’m not a scientist, so it’s cheeky of me to dispute these findings, but I do have some doubts about the apparent sustainability of harvesting mushrooms which I’d like to explore.
Firstly, I think most foragers would agree that Ceps are best harvested while still fairly young. Older specimens often play host to maggots and/or Bolete Mould and, as their firm texture deteriorates with age, so does their culinary appeal. If you search through images of Cep harvests online and on social media, the vast majority of the images show young Ceps with pale coloured pores visible under the caps. With maturity, the pores turn yellow and if left long enough, take on a deep olive hue.
So, what does this mean for the spores? I’m speculating, but it seems to me that spore dispersal via harvesting might not be quite what it’s cracked up to be. If most Ceps are taken before the pores have reached maturity, the chances of them releasing their spores in a forager’s basket seem very low. Some foragers, who harvest mature Ceps, suggest breaking off the yellowed pores and casting them in places where the spores will likely take hold, such as under host trees. I don’t know how successful this method is. On the face of it, it seems more beneficial than discarding the pores by other means, such as into a bin, but given that Ceps disperse their spores via gravity and air currents the spores that are disrupted this way wouldn’t be able to travel far. Without the stem to lift them off the ground, these spores, if they are able to fall at all, would fall directly below the pores, having to land on precisely the right substrate with exacting conditions in order to survive, which seems unlikely as they might be smothered beneath the pores. Spores that are released naturally also have to be lucky, of course, but they at least have air currents on their side, which can distribute them a further and, I presume, more evenly. They are also released during advantageous periods, which I will get to in a moment.
Furthermore, there are other species of fungi which clearly don’t benefit from foraging. Puffballs can only be harvested for consumption before the spores mature, and although its advised not to take them before the protective veil breaks away from the gills, some people do harvest Field (Agaricus campestris) and Horse (Agaricus arvensis) Mushrooms with the veil still intact, meaning the spores are unable to spread at all. And although I’m not tempted, some people eat Stinkhorns (Phallus impudicus) during their ‘egg’ stage, which completely eliminates the chance of that Stinkhorn spreading its spores via flies. And numerous chef’s blogs state that Chanterelles are best picked at the ‘button’ stage, which again seems to deny them the ability to reproduce.
Of course there are some fungi, like Truffles, which rely on being eaten for spore dispersal. Truffle spores pass through an animal’s digestive system unharmed and are deposited to new areas via its faeces. (Considering their lofty price, this Truffle fact tickles me.) This isn’t such good news for the Truffles eaten by humans though, especially those of us in the West, as once our excrement travels into sewerage systems, where it mixes with soapy residues and chemicals, it’s doubtful that any Truffle spores survive.
I could go on, but the point I am trying to make is that although it’s been proven that harvesting does not hinder future yields of mushrooms, there is a chance it might not be doing the fungi the best service, either. In effect, harvesting keeps the mushrooms at a similar level. Yields fluctuate a little, but they stay largely the same.
But, if researchers monitored the same locations each year, could this mean that they’ve potentially overlooked new mushroom plots that have sprung up outside their research area? Plots that have only managed to materialise due to natural spore dispersal?
Left to their own devices, fungi time their spore dispersal to maximise spore survival. Some fungi have been shown to have internal clocks, similar to the circadian rhythm, and they pay attention to external conditions, choosing precisely the best moment to release their spores. Powdery Mildew has a preference for releasing its spores at midday, whereas many tropical species prefer to release their spores during the night. And some gilled mushrooms have been shown to produce their own microclimates, deliberately losing more water than the surrounding plants. This rapid evaporation means that the air beneath the mushroom’s cap is up to 2ºc cooler and the mushroom itself is up to 4ºc cooler than the adjacent air. Cooling its immediate area in this way means that the mushroom produces a localised patch of denser air which, in turn, creates an air current. It’s not much, but it is enough of an airflow for the microscopic spores to travel away from the fruiting body.
All these released spores add up: 25% of the Earth’s atmosphere is made of cellular particles, a mix of skin, fur, plant fragments, pollen, algae, bacteria, viruses, fungi and spores. In fact, some studies suggest that mushrooms are capable of making rain, their spores acting as particles to support water condensation which turns into clouds. (And as UV light and harsh atmospheric conditions are known to kill many spores, perhaps this water attracting tactic increases a spore’s longevity?) Although they’re delicate, some spores can survive in the atmosphere for a number weeks, and have been found at an altitude of over 3,000 meters. Perhaps they go even higher? The Jet Stream carries living bacteria long distances, so it is likely, if they rose high enough, that the same thing would happen with fungal spores.
So, mushroom yields might not have changed much in the studied locations, but that’s not to say that yields didn’t increase elsewhere. Spores from the unpicked mushrooms in these studies could have travelled far and wide, creating new mushroom plots which were unknown to the researchers. If this was the case, yields of the unpicked mushrooms would have actually increased.
I have no way of proving my hunch, but it’s food for thought. I know it’s tempting to take every edible mushroom you find, especially when it comes to Ceps. As I’ve said, they are delicious, and have the further benefit of drying well for storage. But I think the principles and practices of The Honourable Harvest should always be at the forefront of every foraging trip, especially in a nature depleted country like the UK. Fungi are already suffering from air pollution, habitat loss, excessive fertiliser use and a whole host of further challenges. Taking all the fruiting bodies via pulling might not affect the subterranean mycelia, but I believe there’s a likelihood that it prevents successful spore dispersal, meaning that spores are unable to colonise new areas. And that seems a great shame. I’d much prefer it if fungi were allowed the chance to spread, so I’ll make sure I only collect when there’s an abundance, with a heart full of gratitude, and take just a few, if any at all. And, although in the past I have done this with good intentions, I will no longer try to hide mature mushrooms under foliage, as this may also impede spore dispersal.
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