Wild for magic mushrooms
THEY come by night, billowing from the damp earth, silent, swift and smooth. One moment, there’s nothing, the next, discreetly bulbous beauty, their caps a shiny umber, their stalks as stout as swine. For the hunter, there’s little time to linger. We’re not alone in our adoration, for the cep is the most majestic of mushrooms —something those slugs and bugs know only too well.
My mother says this year is the best she’s ever seen, in this part of Scotland, at least. As we creep through the
