Scarlet fungus hidden in old wood and a beautiful but shy visitor

I OPEN my eyes in wonder. Stepping out of my friend Matthew Coome’s car, I stand where my physical recuperation began many weeks ago.

He has brought me to the spot where I took my first, unsteady steps outdoors. It is a wonderful feeling. Where once I had to watch my every step I now walk with more confidence and ease. What a relief it is too.

There’s a bonus as he wants to show me a mycological gem that he and his wife Hillary came across a few days ago.

We are at Gutteridge’s Wood, just north of the former King Charles Head pub near Goring Heath.

There is a distinct westerly breeze but nothing to worry about.

We take a track along the woodland edge where there are the strangest sights — twisted tree formations and gangly but resilient specimens.

The trees that protect the interior of the wood from the full force of the wind are a mix of hawthorn, silver birch and hazel. Beech, oak and holly with the occasional cherry dominate the sombre interior.

I notice the silence. The only birds that come to my attention are wood pigeons and carrion crows that disperse on our approach.

Gutteridge’s Wood is typical of the south Chilterns, riddled with ancient boundaries and deep flint pits. Many years’ worth of fallen leaves are responsible for the wood’s trademark scent.

Thankfully, it is a reasonably bright day with no rain and the ground is firmer than a month or so back, which helps me. There is a lot of woodbine (honeysuckle) bearing fresh grey-green leaves.

In the distance to our left Haw Farm is discernible between the robust trunks of an oak and beech tree.

A small, gnarled silver birch shares a limited space with a craggy hawthorn. Hazels bear fully-formed catkins.

We head downhill towards Thicket Copse, which was once a stronghold of ash trees wearing green, mossy socks, as my late wife Rosemary would put it.

These were felled amid the fear of the spread of ash die-back disease but I maintain that a small population of ash will prove resistant to the relentless spread of this imported curse and pass on their genes.

A replacement forest has been planted but I can’t get close enough to see what the new trees are due to a dense wall of brush.

Tree protectors have been twirled around the saplings’ infant trunks. I hope that they are biodegradable and not the plastic ones that can cut into the young trees to let in infection that can prove fatal.

The absence of the ash trees also means it is harder for me to navigate from memory. One large yew tree over a large pit to the east is a lone marker of the entrance to a mini-wonderland of bluebells, wood anemones, yellow archangels and early purple orchids that will all explode into flower come the spring.

Also gone are three tall oaks by a badger’s sett where I’d watch the cubs rolling about and making funny noises among the bluebells — a delightful experience.

We delve further into a dip in the land and stop to listen once again. Nothing. No birds, no dog walkers, no horse riders.

Matthew guides me along a once familiar path now so narrow that I have to pick my way through snagging brambles, uneven tree roots and loose flint. It is slow progress as the going is slippery.

To my right stands a plantation of Douglas fir. The air smells strongly of the evergreen, fast-growing conifers —- the antithesis of the indigenous deciduous woodland.

I know that the broad-leaved trees will reaffirm their dominance and reclaim their territory.

Matthew takes me on into an area that I have not visited for such a long time and I must admit I am really enjoying myself for the first time in ages.

We continue up a slope and enter Holme Copse, just short of a right of way and there they are, some scarlet elf-caps, or cups, growing on rotting branches on the woodland floor like something out of a fairytale.

I have never seen these fungi before and the sight is enchanting. A startling, glossy red, the caps are something to behold. What a find.

They may have some medicinal qualities but I’m not tempted to find out.

After this reminder of nature’s sometimes hidden beauty, we turn back and find a more accommodating way to Matthew’s car.

Before I climb in, I admire a cluster of crocuses which are opening, a cheery sight.

Matthew drives us back to Caversham. On the way, a female pheasant gingerly crosses the road in front of us heading towards a seasonal pond and a large, flat field.

I note that many recently planted trees are growing on one of the golf courses to our left on the Woodcote road. I welcome every tree wherever it is situated.

Matthew drops me off but as I am about to get out of the car I spot a redwing (Turdus iliacus) only 6ft away on a low-hanging branch of an ivy-clad elm.

It’s such a beautiful bird, marginally smaller than a song thrush, with dark brown flecks on its chest, vivid red flanks and a cream-coloured stripe above and partially through the eye.

I marvel to think that this lovely bird has crossed the North Sea to get here and gorge on seasonal, winter fruit.

Although they spend most of the year in the primaeval forests of Scandinavia to breed, they are naturally unaccustomed to humans.

We wait a few minutes to have a good look at this attractive visitor with shimmering elderberry-like eyes. As I open the car door, the bird flies off.

From no real expectation other than getting a modicum of well-needed exercise, my day has been heartwarming, seeing a glorious fungus and a stunning bird. There’s more to come, I hope.

As I wave farewell to my friend, a blackcap takes up his mellifluous melody, a dunnock begins to sing and is joined by a robin and then a blackbird. A wren chatters away. All is good.

vincent.ruane@hotmail.com