Great stretches of the long grass, once the teeming jungle of summer, were almost deserted, with only a hurrying beetle or a torpid spider left out of all the myriads of August. The songs of the insects were fewer and intermittent. Along the edge of the wood a sheet of wild clematis showed like a patch of smoke, all its sweet-smelling flowers turned to old man's beard. But most of the plants still to be seen were in seed. Here and there a yellow tormentil showed in the grass, a late harebell or a few shreds of purple bloom on a brown, crisping tuft of self-heal. “Although leaves remained on the beeches and the sunshine was warm, there was a sense of growing emptiness over the wide space of the down. I knew their haunts and breeding grounds. I knew the meaty scent of the bolet and the dry, earthy smell of the brown-cap mushroom. Mother always told us to take our mushrooms to the pharmacy to ensure we had not gathered anything poisonous, but I never made a mistake. I could smell those mushrooms out, the gray chanterelle and the orange, with its apricot scent, the bolet and the petit rose and the edible puffball and the brown-cap and the blue-cap. Still am, to tell the truth, but in those days I had a nose like a truffle pig's. It was the mushroom season, so after I had brought my catch back to the farm and cleaned it out, I took some bread and cheese for breakfast and set out into the woods to hunt for mushrooms. I sang as I lifted my traps, and my voice bounced off the misty banks of the Loire like a challenge. There are maybe three such days in a year. “It was one of those red-gold early October days, the air crisp and tart as heady as applejack, and even at dawn the sky was the clear, purplish blue that only the finest of autumn days brings.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |