New Writing

THE MUSHROOM SEASON IN BURGUNDY

The coprin chevelu sprang up overnight around the base of a large granite stone in our garden. They’d never been there before. We wasted no time. As my French mushroom book advises, they are ‘mushrooms which ‘evolve’ very quickly! Pick them now – for tomorrow it’ll be too late!’ So I did.
They were so fragile that I had to be careful to pick them without bruising the flesh. I sliced them in half lengthways and very gently and briefly fried them in butter. We ate them for lunch. They had the most delicate flavour. We marvelled at the diversity and taste of the fungi in France. For weeks we’d been eating girolles and cepes from the market, but here in our own garden were some of the most delicious mushrooms we’d ever tasted.

We have lived here in the Morvan Natural Park in Burgundy for almost five years now. One of the thousand things that we have learnt is that everything has its season. Even promotions in the supermarket follow a familiar and comforting pattern – raclette – choucroute – fondue (think ‘sixties) - mushrooms.

With the mushrooms comes the hunting season – always with some anxieties for us. Last week I was driving towards the nearest small town and a whole family of wild boar decided to cross the road in front of me. First came the daddy – large, tusked and fearless. I saw him from a distance and came to a halt. He broke from the forest and crossed from right to left. There followed nine baby marcassins – in single file. Mother brought up the rear nudging the runty one to spur it on. I found myself wishing wholeheartedly for their safety from the hunters.

In the spring I had seen a small herd of wild deer in almost exactly the same place. But spring in the Morvan has a completely different feel. It is the season of gentle vibrancy – of violets, cowslips and bright green beech leaves. It’s the season of youth and energy. Now, as I glanced around in the stillness that the boar left behind them, I looked at the trees which had begun to turn – to red, orange and amber - deep burgundy colours that displayed the passing of time in ways that we could only dream about in our former life in England.

Still in a seasonal frame of mind, when I returned from the town I took my dog Bella for a walk through the forest. I had with me, as usual, my walking stick (with which I pretend to be impervious from attack by man or beast), and a plastic carrier bag. Everywhere was the sight and smell of mushrooms, mud, mulch and mould. The only sounds were dripping leaves and Bella on a distant scent. Finding mushrooms - eating mushrooms at this time of the year, answers an atavistic need, and in France, as everyone knows, it’s not such a risky business. There are usually experts in each local Pharmacie who will tell you whether you will have a gastronomic treat – or whether you are about to poison yourself and your family. You take your bag along and wait patiently in line with others on a similar quest. Those beautiful orange “chanterelles” turn out to be the deadly clitocybe de l’olivier and a completely revolting-looking mass of grey brain-matter which grew on the base of a pine tree is the divine clavaire crépue for which most chefs would sell their grandmothers.
Chastened, it’s time to reflect on our knowledge of the environment – our comprehension of the passing seasons in this most wild and beautiful part of France. A friend arrived at our house armed with the information that the optimum altitude for human beings to live is between 400 – 600 metres. She had also done a brief survey of gravestones in the local cemetery and came out with a most extraordinary statistic that the average age of death in these parts was 87 years old! If there’s a grain of truth in any of that, then the Morvan could be the site of the next gold rush. Not only might real seasons help us to live longer, but also they might help us to define and understand how we live and measure out our days.

As the nights lengthen and we bring in wood for the fire we don’t feel the seasonal depression we felt in England. Since being here it has become important to us to recognise and respond to the changes in climate. And it feels the most natural thing in the world to do. Through the blackness of the night we can see the brilliance of the Milky Way. Through the snow we can feel the warmth of the sun.

Here, in this most Celtic of places, we feel close to the monks who wandered round Europe until they found the place that was calling out to them. They were seeking “that spot in the firmament that would one day lead them to heaven". Moving away from England, living in France has been an experience of a similar kind. We now have the time to think those kinds of thoughts.

© Jane Dennis

Jane and her young family moved out of the rat-race in England and into the Morvan Natural Park in Burgundy. It was a big culture-shock. But they’re still there after six years – and have no intention of going back.