Saturday 25 November 2023

A Funky Fungus - 21st November 2023

I went to a beechwood on a late autumn Monday, a wood that forms part of an estate that refreshingly is happy to welcome anyone to wander at will through its trees.

I had been here ten days ago with Peter on one of our fungi forays, having taken up a suggestion from another colleague that this wood was a good one in which to search for fungi.

We found various kinds and the day was considered a success.Toward the end of that day, tired and with concentration wavering I had casually glanced down to a tangle of leaves and grass at my feet and saw some unidentifiable fungi which looked as if they were well past their best and turning black as they rotted.

A casual glance and a dismissal. I thought no more of it.

Back at home, on consulting a guide to fungi I found an image of the supposed rotten fungi which informed me that far from rotten they were in fact a black fungus called Horn of Plenty or Trompette des morts (Trumpet of the dead).

The guidebook further informed me they are said to be occasional but where they do occur can be locally abundant and are highly prized as an edible delicacy, being found in the leaf litter of mainly beechwoods from late summer to late autumn. I resolved to return to the wood and look at them with the respect and enthusiasm that I had previously denied them, that is if I could remember where they had been in the wood.

A few days later I walked through an ancient churchyard and followed a track into the woods to be dwarfed by huge beech trees, their smooth grey trunks disappearing upwards into a counterpane of yellow and gold leaves yet to fall to earth. 

Below, my feet riffled through an orange and yellow mosaic of countless fallen leaves, so prolific the hard ground was rendered soft and yielding to my tread whilst not a breath of wind permeated this cathedral of colour. So overwhelming was the sense of tranquillity, I involuntarily stood in contemplation to embrace a rare moment of natural quiet and solitude. 

A Marsh Tit called, a sharp explosive note that broke the silence and ended my reverie. I resumed my quest for the Horn of Plenty, scanning the woodland floor, my world for now diminished to a circumference of a few metres as I searched. Kicking through drifts of leaves and thin trailing bramble shoots that creep across the ground to catch at your legs and trip you, finally I found what I was looking for. Black with maybe a tinge of midnight blue they looked as I had remembered them, an impression they were long past their best, rotting and slowly returning to the earth from which they had risen. Now I knew better.

I stooped to check my identification was correct and then indulged in a little gardening, removing dead leaves to better reveal the fungi, pulling back tendrils of bramble to expose the full shape of them. Like a black tulip head that has fully opened they sat, snug in their bed of leaves  with wrinkled wavy recurved edges encompassing an open mouth. The similarity to a trumpet there for all to see.

I chided myself for dismissing them in my ignorance and stood to now admire and appreciate them.

So unremarkable in their mute presence, anyone passing would surely be unaware of them, half hidden amongst the leaves and to be rewarded with neither a second glance or recognition.

The sense of achievement and delight at finding them was palpable and I went on my way with a lightness of heart at having discovered another of nature's inconsequential  treasures.


I deplore the popular trend these days to forage for fungi. At a number of woods to which I go, you now often encounter people with plastic bags stuffed full of fungi, far more than is necessary. I was glad my Horns of Plenty had escaped notice and remained to live out their natural cycle.

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