Edible Are They?

Hubs and I come home from a day of sightseeing in town where we may have been on our feet for several hours.  I take off my back pack and announce that I am going out.

“On a walk?” he says, “we’ve just got home from walking around the West End!”

That, in my book, is not the same as a solitary hike in the woods and lanes of the park a few minutes from our flat in Beckenham.

On the way rain caressed fuchsias, or bleeding hearts as my nephew, lover of all things gore, calls them,


set the scene.

Something about the smell of old earth tamped down by the rain,


massages my aching back like an analgesic.

A pungent layer of leaves, decomposing beneath the canopies,


loosens the strands of pain encircling my temples.  My step becomes lighter as I tread this natural path made from shavings of bark, molted from the ancient woods and slowly mulching to soil.

Red berries shimmer in the watery sun and scatter like pinpricks of blood, upon the green,


blackberries left unharvested on their laden bushes by the convenience food generation,


mulberries ripening out of sight in the high branches of an ancient tree,


before falling to the ground to be pecked at by the birds, sharpens my vision.


My ears are nudged by the sound of acorns falling, birds rustling the branches, a sly fox running from a dog through the undergrowth straight across my path.   Magpies intrude with their squawking as they remind the parakeets and wood pigeons of their presence.

Raindrops patter against the leaves a melodious backdrop for the playful prattle of the river dawdling along its gravel beds.


Thistles wearing their late summer hats all akimbo, feel soft as silk and make me laugh at their transformation.


A surprising gift awaited me this week!  Fungi that had sprung up overnight,


cool and waxy to the touch,

flawlessly gathered into clusters of beauty,


unblemished and delicately transforming the undergrowth,


into a magical faerie glen.


I returned the following morning hungry for some more pictures of God’s silent creation only to find each fungi smashed and felled by some unknown scavenger.

I gently foraged among the ruins and retrieved two unearthed specimens; I felt a breath on my hand and found myself starring into the eyes of a pair of springer spaniels.  I straightened up and met their owner who looked at my harvest,

“Edible are they?” he asked.

“I don’t know,”  I said not having thought of them in that way, “They’re for photographing.”  He nodded and continued on his way.

My taste buds tickled I took my photos and headed home to dig up some definitely edible fare,



and quite photogenic too!

A little slice of heaven in my day never to be confused with the hustle and bustle of sightseeing in town.

Share this:

No comments so far!

Leave a Comment