What happened in Brechan Woods?

Every autumn, I make my way through Brechan Woods. It’s a huge place, and for those three or four months each year, it becomes my second home. I know it as well as my own garden, but don’t be fooled—familiarity doesn’t mean it isn’t filled with incredible surprises. There’s an abundance of wildlife to enjoy there: I’ve seen deer, foxes, squirrels, and countless birds. If fauna were my thing, I’d be satisfied by its variety—but I’m not a fauna enthusiast. I am a mycophile: a fungus lover.

When those first hints of damp, cold days arrive, my walking boots come out of the garage, and I’m off to the woods. It’s been my joy for over thirty years.

And then Covid ruined it.

Let’s be honest—if you’d asked anyone in 2018 whether they fancied rooting around for fungus, you’d have got short shrift. But come lockdown, with social media, apps, and the desperate urge to turn outdoor time into a lifestyle statement rather than a personal experience, the woods became filled with bloody “fungal forays” and wild foraging groups. My special place was overrun by people whose interest would wane as quickly as it had appeared. I wasn’t pleased, and I was left with very few options. I could give it all up, I could go at times when nobody else would, or I could embrace it and see if there was anything to be gained by joining in. It was a massive mistake—but I joined in.

There was a group that met once a week, usually on Sunday mornings. It was organised online and led by a man who called himself Fungi Pete—a nickname clearly meant to be said rather than written down, but either way it didn’t convey just how much of an absolute arse he was.

Pete revelled in being the leader and spoke about what we found with great authority. The problem was, he didn’t really know his stuff. He could identify the odd specimen—certainly more than the newcomers—but when he wasn’t sure, he simply made things up. That might be fine if you’re leading a casual tour, but this was a regular group activity, and he became their messiah. I watched from the back as he misidentified alcohol ink caps as shaggy ink caps, among many other irritating mistakes. It was amusing at first, but his smugness, combined with his ignorance, gradually wore on me.

Then one day the question arose: maybe we could forage as well as identify. Personally, I was very much opposed to this on two clear fronts. First, I like to think that whatever is there for me to see will still be there for whoever comes next. Second, it’s bloody dangerous—even if you know what you’re doing. Nonetheless, his arrogance prevailed, and he decided to go with the will of the group. Someone suggested that whatever we found should be taken away and turned into something for the whole group to share the following week. We’d take turns being the group’s chef. I hated the idea, but I went along with it.

The first time we tried this, someone spotted some meadow mushrooms. Pete was called over; he confirmed the find, and they were collected. Jeremy volunteered to make mushroom tartlets for the next meeting, and he was given the bag to take home.

I didn’t go the following week—fortunately for me, as the “meadow mushrooms” turned out to be Destroying Angels (Amanita virosa, for those who know). The difference in their shape is obvious to anyone with even a basic knowledge of fungi. Unfortunately, Jeremy’s delights were distributed to the whole group, consumed, and within an hour every one of the fungus club was dead. Interestingly, the only survivor was the one person allergic to mushrooms—Fungi Pete himself. Given the circumstances, and the accompanying Facebook and Instagram posts from the week before, it was clear that he had identified them, recommended they be eaten, and then abstained himself. He’s still in jail for it now.

Just imagine if the jury had known that the person who truly hated the group, who suggested the group forage, who came up with the idea of collective cooking, who spotted the “meadow mushrooms” in the first place, and who was too “unwell” to join the group the following week… was not the fun guy, but the quiet member who always stood at the back.

I enjoy my lone wanderings through the woods again.