The countryside in November
Sarah Ryan goes in search of a dramatic autumn spectacle and forages for tasty pickings on the woodland floor
WHEN I OPEN the front door, the scent of damp grass rushes up from the ground to meet me. Stepping outside, it mingles with the earthy odour of fallen leaves and fungi, the tang of wet pavement and the trace of engine fumes as a car passes by, sending up a crest of water. I take a deep breath of it all, savouring the freshness of the air, and set out towards the park. The sun, low in the sky, gleams off the wet path.
I left my walk late; not to escape the rain, but to catch the deer. It is coming towards the end of the rut of the Red deer, Cervus elaphus, which is usually at its most active at the break and close of day. If I am lucky, I will get to see the stags compete for dominance over the hinds; a sudden clash of antlers locking the competitors together in a circling wrestle. It is a coveted spectacle, but the sight of it is not my main concern. What I really want is to hear it: the guttural, groaning bellow that echoes over park and valley.
When I enter the park, the deer herd is nowhere to be seen, but it is a big place, and there are a couple of hours before dusk. The grass is damp beneath my feet; the river downhill, to my right, tarnished silver. Uphill, to my left, ancient trees curl their branches towards the soft grey sky, and I head towards them.
The oak is thick-ridged and heavy-set. The leaves clinging to its branches are the colour of rust; those at its base a muddier brown. Poking among them with the toe of my boot, I see a scattering of acorns. Most have bounced out of their cups, which will forever appear to me as little fairy porridge bowls. At the roots of a hazel is a cracked nut shell; one portion split out by a Grey squirrel, Sciurus carolinensis, as cleanly as a quarter cut from an apple.
“Now in November nearer comes the sun down the abandoned heaven. As the dark closes round him, he draws nearer as if for our company”
D H Lawrence, ‘November by the Sea’
Late harvest
One ancient, fallen tree hosts a cluster of russet fungi, which reminds me of other, tastier mushrooms that might be sprouting nearby. I let my eye wander over the grass and roots for the distinctive large caps of the bolete family. These mushrooms, with obvious foamy spores under the cap instead of gills, are the ones I feel most familiar with and confident picking; most of all, the bay boletes, Imleria badia, with their large chestnut caps, and orange birch boletes, Leccinum versipelle, with their orange caps and brindled white and black stem. Both are large, satisfying mushrooms to pick and
to cook, and both are at the end of their season now.
Near the top of the hill, I pause my search to look out over the valley. For a moment, the grey clouds break apart to reveal patches of blue sky over trees of dull green, gold and red. I take another breath of the autumn air; now a simpler perfume of earth, grass, past rain and a nip of cold.
Captivating sight
I wend my way around the park until the light starts to fade, and the trees lose their colour; morphing into dark silhouettes. All is quiet except for the scuffling of leaves and the soft crunch of my footsteps. Just as the first stars begin to twinkle, I see them: a herd of deer, some standing, some lying in the grass; clearly outlined, but fading into the dusk. One turns its antlered head to look in my direction, and I stop still.
We stand in the evening light, both silent, and the stag turns its head away, showing for a moment a perfect profile. All is quiet; all is calm. There are no aggressive shows of power tonight; just a herd of deer and Mars, red in the sky above.
“The squirrel gloats on his accomplish’d hoard, The ants have brimm’d their garners with ripe grain”
Thomas Hood, ‘Autumn’