The forest air is sweet and winy with decay. It’s raining hard. I wipe drops of cold water from the tip of my nose, open an umbrella and ready myself for a walk with my old friend Nick, emeritus professor of the history of science and amateur mycologist. For the last 15 years I’ve accompanied him on autumn mushroom hunts; today we’re visiting Thetford Forest, in Suffolk. Both of us carry trugs, traditional English wooden baskets of willow and sweet chestnut, to hold what we will find. Perhaps tiny fungi with hairlike stalks, or lumpy shelves on the trunks of rotting trees, or pale masses like discarded round pillows, or splayed red starfish arms emerging from the ground.
-NY Times
