Shadowland

These shadows caught my eye, the sun shining through a screen of Douglas Fir trees. We only use the big chain when we go away now. It came from the tidal banks of the Thames near Putney Bridge. It’s that armoured chain. I imagined some thieves probably chucked it in after they’d nicked whatever it was restraining. It was bloody heavy to carry back to the Barbican. Oh to be a mudlark. It’s like being a detectorist without a detector.

A bright enough day and I got myself to the agri shop, wine merchant in swish new premises and the co-op. Had a look for the prugnoli but none yet. I asked the bloke at the bar in the co-op shopping centre. Too windy, he said.

I reckon you could ask almost anyone in the Casentino on the state of the prugnoli, chanterelle or porcini season and they could tell you what’s what but never too much and never locations. They might say you need to go higher, or go damper but never, ever where. You might get a vague wave of a hand but even that could be a feint to send you up the wrong mountain.

It is like the whole community is aquiver with tiny vibrations emanating from the woods and forests: hundreds and thousands of years of accumulated knowledge held at a generality collectively and fiercely guarded at the level of families, generations and individuals.

Luckily our little patch of prugnoli are well fenced in so that they can not wander off and nor the generality wander in.