With Heston being such a demanding creature in terms of being a teenager in need of excitement, we spend a lot of time walking. If I’m working, or on alternate days, we go on the ‘short’ walk round the little woods near me. Every other day, we go to the Braconne forest for a bit of a romp. I’m hoping that when he gets to eight months and we can do agility training, he won’t need quite so much exercise! Luckily, the garden is very undemanding right now. Today, we went with his brother Charlton and my friend Mme V. Only 100 metres into the woods, a fine looking gentleman is coming towards us with a bag of something. All dogs go mental, but the man stops to chat anyway. I suspect he was rather proud of his big bag of mushrooms. In a two-minute chat, I learned he was single, he likes mushroom-picking, he was surprised I was foreign, our dogs are lovely, he has had a bad year for ceps and a good year for chanterelles. He showed me his wares. No. That’s not a euphemism. He had a bag full of black mushrooms that he said were trompettes de la mort – death trumpets. I thought that sounded suspiciously like something NOT to pick, along with destroying angels and the likes. He said you have to string them up to dry and then put them in ragu. I was not convinced. However, upon research, I now realise he was right. Damn it.
Anyway, I’ll be back there looking for death trumpets myself. I am very sad I did not arrange a date with this man, since he definitely knew what he was doing in them there woods. I need to stop watching The Walking Dead and thinking that a zombie apocalypse is just round the corner.
I think it is more likely, given my mushroom obsession and forest-time, that I get lost, break something, die of exposure or eat a poison-pie than it is that I have to face a zombie army. But still. Best be prepared.