I set off with my walking stick but no bag or knife. I should have known better, for it is mushroom collecting season here and no-one goes walking without this essential equipment. The morning mist rising out of the steep river valley was only just beginning to burn off so I decided to take the top lane that follows the headland before it plunges down into the Viaur Gorge – that way, I would stay in the sunshine. A few minutes later, I saw Thierry’s car pull into the hedgerow a few hundred yards down the road, and his wife, Marie-Claude, jumped out and ran into the field. How odd, I thought, maybe she was desperate for a pee? Then Thierry got out carrying a plastic bag and waved at me. Of course! How stupid of me – they’ve spotted some mushrooms.
“Bonjour” he cried, proudly showing me the contents of his bag – beautiful pink-gilled field mushrooms, champignons de prés, and tiny tawny brown mushrooms like little hats – les mousserons. Marie-Claude returned with a large handful of the mousserons that had precipitated her sudden descent form the car and Thierry trimmed the stalks with his mushroom knife. “Here, you take them,” he said, and they found me a plastic bag.
“Cook them in the pan with a little butter and some garlic,” Marie-Claude explained and added, “they are excellent with veal.”
“But don’t cook them for too long,” Thierry said, “and serve them with un bon petit vin.” And then they left, having explained they were en route for yet another little vacance. (Marie-Claude has just retired and with a generous French pension and all the time in the world, they seem to be on constant holiday).
I continued on my way, and before long, I too, had found more tiny mousserons and some reasonably impressive field mushrooms. And then I passed a fig tree leaning over a garden wall. The house belongs to some Norwegians who had been and gone for the summer and I knew that the figs would only fall and rot, so I didn’t feel too guilty about gathering a goodly quantity. I began to fantasize about a fig tart I had eaten the year before – succulent ripe figs poached in a sweet wine sitting on a crème pâtissière. Gradually tonight’s meal took shape in my head as I descended the lane down to the fields by the river – yes, there is rocket in the garden and a small lettuce, and some pork which I will marinade before cooking and serve with a creamy sauce of mushrooms. Will there be time to bake bread? No – but Roland can bring a fresh baguette back with him when he returns this evening, and we will drink a bon petit vin with our supper of mousserons and figs.
