Shroom Stories

The beaten, but trusty red Astra turned, finally off the winding moorland road, into the tarmacked parking area. It had been a long drive to get to this innocuous and quietly deserted spot. The morning fog, famous in this region at this time of year, clung thickly around them, but they knew they were in the right place, from years of practice. They had been here before many times. Dave gave John a weary smile for such a well done job, getting them there.

“Can I have a spliff now” John said, slightly incredulous – it had been hard to endure Dave’s toking all the way down, and not being able to even have a puff – John was good like that – definitely no toking, / drinking whilst driving. Dave on the other hand had no such qualms as a passenger.

“Got one right here for you mate”, Dave said with a twinkling eye, protruding up a large, and perfectly rolled joint for John’s appreciation. “Rock N’ Roll” John said taking it and lighting it from the car’s cigarette lighter, and inhaling deeply in with a relieved satisfaction. They sat there, heads nodding to the cool, chilled tunes emanating from the CD player, occasionally passing the joint back and forth between them.

“It looks fuck’n A out there at the moment” Dave mentioned, nodding his head towards the side window. All John could see was thick fog, and the gentle patter of raindrops on the windscreen. It was gloomy as the morning sun had only just begun to rise. It didn’t look fuck’n A to him. But he knew Dave was right – conditions were indeed perfect for the thing that had brought them here. One thing was for sure, however - they were definitely going to get wet.

Minutes later John finished off the spliff, and crunched it in the ashtray. “Ready” Dave said – it wasn’t a question. John nodded, wearily. Dave opened the door and got out. The elements immediately embraced him, and the chill in the morning air welcomed them hello. He felt a tingle down his spine, partially from the cold, but partially from the excitement they had arrived. He was like a Labrador, after months of waiting was finally let off the leash. He could sense that their quarry was here. His eyes couldn’t resist darting about the roadside verge of the car park, hoping he might see the thing they were seeking.

Ten minutes later, both of them were dressed more appropriately for the environment. It was the same gear they always wore this time of year. John had his bright red and black weatherproof jacket on plus full waterproof trousers. Dave too had full rain clothes and thick Caterpillar boots. Both of them had their hoods up to keep the heavy drizzle out of their eyes. John locked the car, put his rucksack on and they set off upon their way. At last they were in pursuit.

They moved quickly now – they had a lot of ground to cover and the terrain was hard and rough underfoot – gorse and bracken bushes abounded around them, and it was all uphill. The low visibility made it hard to pick a good path that would lead them toward the place they were trying so hard to reach. They continued moving uphill following the slope to its crest, where the land flattened out, and they could move easier. The fog was unrelenting, thick and disorientating around them, and for a while they weren’t even sure they were going in the right direction.

“If we don’t get any today, I’ll be absolutely amazed” Dave puckered. Nothing dented his enthusiasm for this. To Dave shroom season was a special, magical time. Nothing could beat the thrill he got from hunting in these lands for their cherished prize - the Psilocybe semilanceata – better known as the Liberty Cap - perhaps the greatest and fairest magic mushroom of them all. At least it was to Dave.

“I can see it now” he said. So could John – like magic, their enchanted land, the place they had driven so hard through the night to get to, had materialised, as if by magic from the veiled white cloak that surrounded them. There was the tree - an ancient, old tree that marked the beginning of their hunting grounds – it seemed to somehow symbolise the enchanted nature of this place - old and mysterious.

Before them lay the vast expanse of some of the most pristine magic mushroom picking land England had to offer. It was a field they found years ago, on experimental forays into this wilderness, and was the jewel in their magic mushroom picking crown. They had the field completely to themselves and were clearly the first shroomers to arrive here. It was pristine, unspoilt and completely unpicked, virgin shroom land. It was the stuff you dreamed about. They were both buzzing now, full of anticipation and expectancy. They walked past the tree.

“Ha” Dave cracked stooping down. He bent up and proffered his hand to John. Clutched between his fingertips were three small brown mushrooms – but they were unmistakeable – John had seen them many times before – Liberty Caps. Dave’s smile was infectious. John looked down, and straight away saw one too. A single solitary shroom - no wait – to the right was another one, and another… and another greeted his eyes as they arced round. Not ten feet in and they’d already hit their first family. This field was truly special. “Whhhheeee haaaaaa !!!” John screamed like some rodeo star – “Wheeeehaaa” Dave chimed in, the sound echoing into the mist. Both were enjoying themselves despite the weather.

Of course Dave pulled a spliff out from under his jacket to celebrate the moment, but John was hardly going to complain – why not – it was a fuckn’ good gear. Picking and spliffs were born for each other. It was part of their ritual. They walked slowly now, relaxed but alert, occasionally exchanging the joint. They didn’t get far, before they saw more mushrooms. It was hard not to see them – they were everywhere.

The next hour passed and the initial excitement of being in shroom paradise had settled down into a methodical shroom gathering exercise. Both of them were now tuned in to their surroundings – to the point they were spotting shrooms with their peripheral vision alone. Dave found himself almost lost in his thoughts – his mind was relaxed, but focussed, processing what it saw, and analysing it for anything that resembled shrooms. To him, hunting mushrooms was more like a state of being then anything else. To be good at picking it was necessary to be able to relax yet be aware of the smallest details, looking for visual clues or the slightest hints of what could be their quarry poking up from out the grass.

Most of the time these mushrooms were very small – and the grass was taller – they were very easy to walk past (something Dave hated to do). It became instinctive after a while, as you just anticipated the shrooms appearance. Often he would spot one single mushroom, seemingly alone. On stooping down to collect it, he would follow his usual ritual, of gazing in a visual arc taking in an immediate 3-4 feet scanning radius all around the spot where the mushroom was. It was amazing how often mushrooms that he had not seen initially, suddenly materialised into view before him.

If he couldn’t see any immediately, he would increase the scope of the scan taking in more ground, and do another sweep with his eyes, trying to work out which direction to head next. Often a shroom on the perimeter of his vision would announce itself, deciding this for him, other times, a particular patch of grass – green, fresh and tufty would offer promise of shrooms potentially hiding amongst its blades. Ten feet to the right, the grass was particularly well grazed, then the shorter grass around it – Dave knew from experience, that well grazed grass yielded the biggest hauls of mushrooms so he was always on the look out for it.

However he wasn’t even aware of what he was doing now, as he was running on auto-pilot. It was easy to simply lose oneself in the whole involved nature that is shroom hunting. To Dave, it was perhaps one of the most absorbing, therapeutic and rewarding past times nature has to offer – Dave never got bored of the buzz or excitement from spotting a large group of shrooms he affectionately called villages. He never got bored of shrooming - period. It was simply the best hobby a person could wish for. It always pushed his senses to razor sharpness. The mushrooms just seemed to jump into his consciousness, like little light houses and beacons. He could spot even the smallest ones from 20 feet away. He didn’t know what it was, but there was just something about them - like they were just designed for humans to find them.

God the shrooms were plentiful this year he thought quietly to himself. He was beginning to get a sore back from all the bending down he was doing. It was monotonous work, carefully plucking the shrooms one by one, and occasionally two or three at a time, and popping them into his pod.

He moved his hood back with his hand, which had suddenly slipped annoyingly down across his eyes. The rain was a persistent drizzle now and the fog still clung thickly and sombrely around them. He suddenly became aware how quiet this place was and had a feeling of loneliness. The only thing he could hear was the wind and rain against his waterproof. A realisation suddenly dawned on him. He looked up, looking around. He hadn’t spoke or heard from John for over an hour now.

“John” Dave called out. No reply. “John!” Dave called again, this time standing up and walking forward. Nothing – just the rain. Dave started to feel uneasy. He continued yelling, but after 5 minutes there was still no sign of John.

Dave felt concerned. This place was very remote, and with the fog as thick as it was, very easy to get lost - something that had almost happened to him on a few occasions out here in the past. You could walk for miles in the wrong direction without any clue where you were – especially in this weather. Or worse, what if John had slipped and knocked himself out, or fallen down a hole? He reached for his mobile, and then cursed as he realised he’d left it in the car. Now he had no way of getting in touch with John. “F*@k” he thought annoyed at this oversight. He was so keen to get into the action, he’d totally forgotten about it.

The magic field was situated on the crest of a large hillside that swept down into a valley basin. The flat of this valley was a place where marshland met well grazed grassland. This Dave had always felt was a contributory factor to why the shrooms were so prevalent here. It was the equivalent of three cherries on a jackpot machine, and was ideal for Liberty Caps.

The vegetation in the lowlands where the grassland ended was different. Tall reeds and spongy like moss and lichens flourished as far as the eye could see before him. As Dave continued forward the solid ground began to squelch underfoot. It had soaked through to his socks. The feeling added to his disquiet. Dave called off the search. It was hopeless. He needed to get back to the car now. Maybe he’d find John there waiting for him.

Around him the fog hung thick, giving a ghostly feel to the landscape. Dead tree stumps and branches punctuated out of the bog, giving the place a deathly feel. He couldn’t see any landmarks. All he could see was swampy marshland. He moved forward and suddenly his ankles disappeared into the swamp, causing him to jolt. He lurched forward stumbling knee deep in swamp water. “Fuck” he cursed again. He moved and just ended up wading in the swamp.

He began to run, afraid, with fear setting in. He splashed through the marsh, trying to find some sort of solid ground. Dave stopped. “Keep calm” he told himself. “Think”. He peered into the mist. He had to get back onto the hill. As he looked he noticed the white blanket around him was thinning. The wind had picked up, and now he could see at least 100 feet. He could see the slope of the hill, and new where he was. He moved towards it, hoping the swamp wouldn’t suddenly suck him in deeper. It didn’t, and he was relieved to see it receded. He stepped onto a dense matt of vegetation, and could see some solid ground ahead of him. He took a moment, pulling himself together and then crossed across to it, and then immediately walked back up the slope.

He saw he could see down to the car park now, nearly a mile away. The Astra sat there still, though it was now joined by a large camper van. He couldn’t see John. But at least now he could get back. All thoughts of finding shrooms was now gone, replaced by the mystery of what had happened to his mate.

He walked quietly, lost in his thoughts, negotiating his way back to the car park. The journey was hard underfoot and he was relieved when at last the Red Astra loomed close ahead. He could see that it was empty. John was still no-where to be seen. Dave reached the car door and tried it. It was locked.

The wind had picked up hard now, and Dave was getting battered by it and the pelting rain it delivered. It was a bleak. If only he could call John’s mobile he thought. That though meant he had to get his own phone first.

The bag it was in lay tantalising in front of him through the window. He cursed, weighing up his options. Behind him was the large Motorised Caravan, he had seen from the distance. It began to move, turning in a 90 degrees arc so that it was no longer square onto the wind that now tore down upon it, threatening to topple it over. Dave was glad that at least he wasn’t alone any more. Maybe the occupants inside could help. Swallowing his pride, Dave went to the caravan, and knocked on the door.

It opened by a cautious looking lady holding a mug of tea. “Sorry to bother you” Dave said, appreciating he must look a site, “but I think I’ve lost my friend on the moor”.

“Oh my God” the woman replied. “Come in”. Dave felt a little embarrassed as he entered. His waterproof clothes were drenched dripping rivets of water onto the caravan’s linoleum floor. From his jacket’s pocket the big coke bottle he had used to put his shrooms protruded out. There were at least 500 shrooms in it, but fortunately not enough to be visible above the jacket pocket. However if anyone had given the bottle closer inspection one would have seen a few strands of grass were stuck on it’s lip and just inside it.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” the woman asked to which Dave gratefully accepted. He began to explain what had happened. He noticed that the woman wasn’t alone, and was accompanied by a man in his 40s. They listened as Dave improvised his story as to how he’d somehow convened to lose his friend. When he finished, they shared Dave’s unease for John. “Would you like to make a phone call?” She asked, motioning to the handset on the windowsill. Dave did, but he didn’t have a clue who to call. He figured it was an emergency so felt 999 (the number for the emergency services in England) would be the best bet. He dialled the number, composing his thoughts as he listened to the ring. A lady answered asking what service he wanted to be put through to - the Ambulance, Police, Fire Brigade or Coast Guard. Dave looked out of the window. The wind continued to howl at a strong rate of knots, and the rain was pelting the caravan like nails. None of these options really seemed appropriate to Dave in his current predicament. He explained to the operator that he didn’t know which one was best.

“Sir unless you can tell me who you want to pass this call onto we can’t help you” the operator said. All Dave could see was water – “Well it looks pretty wet out there, maybe you should send the coast guard”. It was an ironic joke which almost forced a chuckle from everybody in the caravan. Dave changed his mind. “Put me through to the police” he said still not sure how exactly a police officer was going to be able to help find John. He was transferred through to the police who took down the details of what had happened.

The story continues here