Autumn is many things: morning mist hanging over the low pasture, swirling flocks of swallows drifting imperceptibly south, the light ripening with the hazelnuts. Under the trees, autumn arrives as a scent; the smell of damp decay, as the summer plants give way to fungi.
To the mycophile, this forest funk is a call to action, a reminder that mycelium in the leaf litter is proliferating and preparing to fruit. And so, as a self-confessed mushroom lover, I find myself, basket in hand, contemplating the scentscape of this shaded woodland. There is something different here, though, a sickly note of rotting flesh amid the background odour. Most would walk on, fearing a macabre scene, but recognising the olfactory calling card of a very special mushroom, I start to search.
Aerial scent trails are by no means linear, and it is with much sniffing and rummaging about that I find my prey among the bracken. The common stinkhorn is at once bizarre and familiar, with a form unmistakably reminiscent of human anatomy. Its Latin name, Phallus impudicus, translates to “shameless phallus”, and was, incidentally, the first binomial name I felt inspired to commit to memory as a young naturalist.
The bulbous head of this specimen is still coated in reeking “gleba”, a sticky brown substance that attracts flies, then sticks to their feet, making them unwitting transporters of the spores contained in this carrion-scented glue.
Edible but predictably unloved, this mushroom is usually eaten immature in its embryonic sac, where it offers a surprisingly radish-like experience to those brave enough to work through the thick jelly also contained within this “witch’s egg”. For me, however, it is the mature stinkhorn’s essence of putrefaction that offers the truly exciting potential. Dried and ground, I have discovered that fully grown stinkhorns bring an extraordinary depth of flavour to vegan dishes in place of aged beef, a product which, after all, owes its savoury character to the controlled process of decomposition.
This one is a solitary specimen, so I move on, leaving it to unashamedly spread its spores. There will be other fungi to fill my basket and grace my table, ones that the rest of my family might actually eat.
Under the Changing Skies: The Best of the Guardian’s Country Diary, 2018-2024 is published by Guardian Faber; order at guardianbookshop.com and get a 15% discount