An shorter version of this piece appears in the latest issue of An Antidote To Indifference, edited by Andrews of Arcadia – available in the shop now.

Winter opens with trees dripping in thick mists, thumping on the yurt roof. I listen like a squatter inside a drum. An acorn, a rotton twig, the air too heavy, spilling its wet guts across my canvas dome. Inside, like a bloodhound between cases, I’m waiting for a scent. It’s that time of year, when the clocks go forward like they’ve heard a hunting horn, or a flight of geese passes over their grave. Next day the hunters march down the lane. The forest floor is a yellowneum of leaves like flattened lemons, cast like confetti at the Feast of All Saints. The bracken rots, the bats withdraw, and the moon is a cold slice glinting on the mud. It’s opening day at last. The glorious first of November. Chanterelles, Peter, chanterelles.

We found the place. Past the ruined stone hut in a woodside field, ungathered haybales sagged and rotting. An old track, mossy banks, the light stifled like a hand over your mouth. It was half a clock off dusk. We saw by the incandescence of glowing leaves. We jumped the moss and waded through bracken the colour of strong tea, snapped into heron leg, till we found the deer tracks, hunters’ brush, the slime, wet braken crushed into food. And they were there, the first chanterelles of winter, the first of Novembers, pushing through sheaves of blackening bracken like crowds lining the streets at liberation. Like carpet nails, Laure said, tacked lightly in the rugs of moss.

We filled the basket in a parable. Tubular chanterelles you could drink wine from, heap on the beloved’s bed, horde under candle-light or dress the wild hog before battle. We drove home as the verges whitened, the nocturnal birds up late and feasting on spent flies in the headlight beams, thick barrelling mist drifting off the river like a ghost train.

Every November we sound the alert, prick up our ears for the rains, flare nostrils at the decay – the slime on pine, the bracken sludge, the yellowing grass under chestnut trees, the glowing green of mossy ruffs round pine stumps. A nervous fear; supposing they don’t come. What will save us? As if these chanterelles were a rescue party, succour for the stranded, brandy for the parson. It’s a kind of smuggling, yes, because it’s furtive, silent, and a luxury you hide from passing gentlemen on horseback.

Just their name, chanterelles. The song girls, ballads of the forest floor, acoustic food for an electric omelette? Why not? But, my fancy aside, from Greek to Latin, chanterelle is a drinking vessel, a goblet. Kantharos, cantharellus, only canticles they are, a cup and a song. Minstrels of the fallen, horns for the song of the earth.

In the sixteenth century they enter historical records as “the fourteenth edible mushroom”. Fourteenth, sporteenth, it’s a fool’s game hit parading mushrooms. Mycologists can be divisive. The mushroom snob walks a narrow path. Within the chanterelloid family there’s even a pecking order which only ever takes account of gastronomics, the culinary celebrity, the price in the market, an obsession which now sediments down to the places where celebrity isn’t welcome. The forest floor.

The chanterelle I exalt is the underdog of them all, the tubular, the lowly fifth in line to its glittering cousin the girolle of the golden glow. Cantharellus tubaeformis, or chanterelle en tube, historically the fodder of the poor, swine mushrooms unfit for emporers. It suffers dismissal, even derision. In current mushroom publications I’ve seen it described as “of no particular culinary interest.” It has only come to notice as edible at all since the second world war, since drastic declines in the number of other species, most notably girolles themselves. Change of land use, excess nitrogeon, acid rain, monoculture, stupidity and greed. As with anything wild or natural, we do not deserve them, and they should never be sold. Mushroom racketeers will get their Eliott Ness.

The tubular chanterelle, faithful to untampered conditions, is a glimpse of perfection when it appears. It is generous, spotless, each one unique as a snowflake, unspoilt by worm or slug, it doesn’t reflect the rot which begets it. Instead, it rejoices as a choir only can. They proliferate in visionary numbers, unlike a long wait in a garden for that bean or leaf, the chanterelle is a night bird, born only at PH critical 5.5, unhurried till the time is right. Then it marches, all hands to the deck, everybody out, harmony before the end of the world. And we should listen to what they say. They don’t have to be there; it’s as moniters of our folly they remain so faithful. Once ectotrophic mycorrhiza is extinguished, the chanterelle will never return. Sulphur dioxide in the air, nitrogeon in the soil, the forest floors become bramble and bilberry where once it was herbs and mushrooms. The herbs are long gone since industrial revolution. Chanterelle, don’t take your love to town.

NOSH NOTES

We must not forget the reason for picking mushrooms; they’re delicious to eat. I may forage from necessity, but I’m also aware that I eat things no billionaire will ever eat; ambrosia itself. When celebrities try and engage with nature on their ten million pound estates, they end up on dialysis. Never try and impress your friends, you’ll end up killing them. Get a bloody mushroom book. I’ve said it before, but mistakes are fatal. I’m always expanding my mushroom larder, but only after cross referencing with four different books, plus internet, plus instinct, which comes with years of dicing with death.

The cooking of a mushroom couldn’t be simpler, but cultural differences confuse the matter. Basically, the British say olive oil or bacon fat, the French say butter. I say all three. The chanterelle is a polyglot, or polyamorous. Olive oil, cold pressed organic rapeseed oil, bacon fat or butter will all suffice, but a mushroom is not a stable rotter. Each month of the year produces mushrooms with different textures and consistencies. Water levels vary, insect behaviour, and actual taste, something the chefs never consider. Wet summers, for instance, can produce tubular chanterelles, but these will be small, yellow and dry. These are best fried in butter on a slow flame or done quickly in oil and garlic. As autumn progresses, mushrooms hold more water. Oil and water don’t mix well, but butter and water produce delicious juices.

The chanterelle en tube is probably the hardiest of mushrooms. It can survive a wet heatwave in July and a freeze up under snow between Christmas and as late as the first week or two of the new year. Unlike most species, whose life span is ephemeral, (ie birth, then attack by maggot, beetle and slug till death as mush), the chanterelle has no predator and is not prone to rot. It can sit there for a month waiting for you to find it. It keeps well once picked, like a winter apple if treated correctly. Frost will blacken them, but they stay upright and edible.

They can be dried, but I prefer to freeze them once cooked. Fully cooked, they turn dark grey to black, whether in butter or oil. For immediate use, fry in a good wok, big knob of salty butter with a dash of olive oil and crushed garlic. Pile the wok high as they’ll reduce to a third. Depending on the time of year or the size or freshness of the mushroom, there may be some water. Don’t drain anything away. Either keep it as sauce or, even better, drain the liquid into a small stone pot and stick it in the fridge. Call it chanterelle butter, or dripping if you substitute with bacon fat. When it’s hard, spread it on toast or oatcakes to eat with farmhouse cheddar or a French salers with pickles, an apple, a glass of dry cider or a good ale, especially while watching cold rain stream down the windows in the shorter dark days of winter.

Chanterelles at christmas are a delight, an original touch if you need one. A layer of black mystery in a home made pork pie. Or served with fried bacon cubes and a dollop of creme fraiche. Look for them under pine trees in December, pushing up under the fallen needles. Take a cutting of fresh green pine needles home with them and fry it in oil, drain the oil off, removing the needles, and cook the chanterelles in this later. The aroma of the pine will please the chanterelles. Likewise, soak the cutting in cold oil till needed.

Once identified, you cannot confuse the tubular chanterelle with any toxic mushroom. If any reader craves the experience, and has a speciman they’d like identified in certitude, do email a photograph, still sitting in its habitat if possible, to Caught By The River for forwarding to me.

by Roger Clapham

It’s almost a cliché when it comes to the onset of winter and beer drinkers start reaching for the dark stuff, however stouts and porters just feel right when the clocks have gone back and the perpetual gloom of the near night-time seems almost constant. Frankly, I’m quite glad to not live in Northern Scandinavia at this time of year, and although London doesn’t see that severe a winter it’s always better faced after a pint or two of stout.

Stout and porter have been pretty much interchangeable as types of beer for nearly three hundred years now, and there isn’t really a huge difference between the two apart from subtle variations in recipe and alcoholic content. Originally, stouts were known as “stout porters” – simply meaning stronger, with higher ABVs. By the early 1800s “brown stout” was the connoisseur’s choice – essentially strong, high quality porter – and Brick Lane’s Truman Brewery listed brown stout as the highest quality beer it produced in 1830. These days it’s frequently the opposite that’s true, with “porter” generally being of a higher alcoholic content (and often craft-brewed with an attempt at some kind of historical accuracy), whereas stout, for most people at least, is just a pint of Guinness, available in every pub or bar the world over pretty much. Now there’s nothing wrong with a pint a Guinness (especially if you stick a measure of port in it – the true taste of Christmas, trust me) but there’s more to stout than just Guinness, so here’s three of my current favourites.

First up is Bath Ales Dark Side stout, a 4.0% beauty that’s smoother than your salesman uncle at a wedding reception. With a great flavour from the roasted barley, and hints of coffee, smoke and molasses coming through too, it really is a fine beer. And if you fancy a couple, the low-ish strength means you can give in to the moreish flavour without getting into too much trouble.

Next is Stringers Dry Stout, from their splendid renewably powered brewery in Ulverston in Cumbria. As the name suggests, this is a dry, bitter beer – stout as it should be some would say. It’s as black as night and looks like a pint of 4.5% espresso, but it’s packed with flavour – stout with a bite this one, as well as being a worthy eco-choice. The Stringers guys don’t produce huge quantities and their beers (they do a great IPA too) can be hard to find outside of Cumbria so look out for this at beer specialists or online.

Finally, from Williams Brothers up in Scotland, Profanity Stout – presumably named as such as on first taste folk turned the air blue in appreciation for this cracker of a beer. The recipe was cooked up by a couple of students from the brewing course at Edinburgh’s Heriot-Watt university, but home brew experiment gone wrong this is not. Strong black coffee flavours, some sweetness and a bitterness that isn’t overwhelming, it’s a delicious and satisfying beer but with a surprisingly high strength – this comes in at 7.0%, but so long as you drink it chilled, you won’t notice that until you’ve downed the lot.

Enjoy the winter. Cheers.

“There is no way I have the literary skills to describe that taste without sounding totally pretentious. But it is definitely the taste highlight of my life. It is up there with seeing The Clash at Eric’s on 5 May 1977 for great life-changing moments.”

The exemplary Quietus – our favourite music website by a country mile – have kindly run an extract from Bill Drummond’s On Nature contribution. It’s all about damsons, but, if you know Bill’s writing already, you’ll know it’s going to be about so much more than that. You can read the extract here.

Luke Turner – one of the Quietus’ founders/editors – will be in conversation with Martin Noble from British Sea Power about his contribution to On Nature next Weds at the Stag pub in Hampstead (also featuring Rob Penn, Nick Hand and Mike Carter). Click here for tickets details.

by Ben McCormick.

With eyes like two halves of a pithy blood orange and a bellyful of wind that’s making sounds to give singing, diving, pilot whales a run for their watery money, I stroll into The Rake in Borough hoping for some solace. Instead, I find Dark Star Tripel.

Dark Star brewery started out in the basement of Brighton’s Evening Star pub before moving first to Ansty, then to Partridge Green, West Sussex. Their flagship Hophead beer is now fairly widely available, but the range doesn’t stop there. From Porter to American Pale Ale, Dark Star crafts crisp, delicious ales that rarely disappoint.

So let’s forgive, for a moment, the Germanic label and the slight cloudiness and even the fact the brewery appears to be named after a geeky comic (cue hatemail). The first smell that hits you is blossoming apple orchards. It’s a sweet, bucolic air that drifts off the top, aided this evening by a whipping wind that makes the head skitter like prancing white cap seahorses atop choppy waves. A sign of things to come.

The first gasp rips into you like a Gauloise Filtre after a heavy night, laying down the sharp, hoppy foundations for what’s next. And that’s a malty maelstrom that swirls over the tongue and threatens to overwhelm. Back snap the hops with a taste that’s a weird hybrid of Fisherman’s Friends and Werther’s Originals. Then again come the malts. Insistent. Undeterred. Leaving their sticky residue clasping every pebble of your tastebud shingle beach.

It’s not standard Dark Star fare, really. But it’s impressive. A big beached whale of an ale; awesome, yet slighly unwelcome if left there for too long. You do need something sharp and weaker to wash it down with. And after an entire pint of the stuff, I’m as battered as a Cape Cod shoreline in hurricane season.

I was kindly asked to contribute a cake recipe for Caught by the River. It was flattering, and I realised I needed to do some research into the best picnic characters, as I’m not myself a fisher woman, just yet. But I do like baking so felt I had a good start. But, where to begin?

My research naturally led me to a famed corner of Soho where I bumped into some roguish fellows who, as it happened, knew a thing or two about fishing. I tapped their resources, and found that cakes were not always actually the best thing to take to the river. This is because that perfect cake, carefully wrapped in foil and sent off with the fishermen, as the day commences, becomes squashed, warm and miserably marred. (editors note; not entirely true. all previous recipes have stood up to the test though the same cannot always be said of the fishermen.)

So cakes were out. Then, thanks to further discussions with those Soho fellows, I struck gold. My old favourite, Flapjacks: so easy you could instruct your child to make them; firm and unmashable (especially in some lovely Tupperware) and full of slow releasing energy for that lull in the fisherman’s concentration. These should ward off any listlessness and mine are full of flower honey, scented like a John Constable landscape.

120g unsalted butter
4 tbsp flower honey
75g golden caster sugar
240g quaker oates
½ tsp Maldon sea salt

Preheat the oven to 200C and line a small baking tray with grease proof paper. In a large sauce pan melt the butter and honey and sugar so that it is just beginning to amalgamate and bubbling in a fizzing way. Now add the oats and salt, using a spatula and carefully working so that the oats are entirely coated in the syrup. Turn this out into the baking tray and press down with a bendy knife or the spatula. You want it to be pretty dense and tightly packed. Place the tray in the oven for 15 minutes, or until the edges are just beginning to turn golden and the main surface is slightly rising. Remove from the oven and slice with a large knife whilst it is still soft and malleable. If you leave the slicing until the flapjacks are cool, then it is much harder to separate them.

for more Rosie we highly reccomend a visit to ‘Rosie’s Deli‘ in Brixton Market, South London. But if that’s not so easy, read her blog and pick up a copy of her new book, ‘Spooning With Rosie’ here.

Gooseberry cake.

Gooseberries have been grown in Britain since the reign of Henry VIII but reached their peak of popularity in the 19th century. During this time England was mad for gooseberries along with all the pies, puddings and wines that could be made from this amazing, hairy fruit.

Gooseberries prefer a cool, northern climate and thanks to the passion of English gardeners have thrived in places like Lancashire, Cheshire and Scotland. The fruit was so popular in the early 1800’s that many societies were formed to celebrate the diversity of colour, flavour and size. They held shows and competitions to show off the biggest and most flavoursome berries.

Lancashire was renowned for its’ large varieties, the most notable being a red variety called ‘Top Sawyer’. In 1819, one of these enormous berries weighed in at 26dwts 17grs – the size of a hens’ egg! Some competitions are still held today using the same weighing method of pennyweights and grain.

These days, gooseberries (or goosegogs as my Dad calls them) are not so fashionable but are a big part of our English summer and shouldn’t be overlooked. They are just coming into season now and the first small, green fruits are best for cooking. Later in the summer the larger red, yellow or golden varieties will be sweet enough to be eaten raw.

Gooseberry cake

125g butter
200g unrefined caster sugar
3 good eggs
75g plain flour
75g ground almonds
1 teaspoon baking powder
About 350g gooseberries topped and tailed
30g flaked almonds

Wait for the butter to come to room temperature and then beat together with about 180g of the caster sugar (you need to keep some aside for later). When the mixture is pale and fluffy, start to mix in the eggs one at a time and if it begins to curdle add a spoonful of the flour. Add the rest of the flour and then the baking powder and ground almonds. Don’t over mix.
Spoon into a buttered, round 20cm cake tin and level off with a knife. You will need a cake tin with a loose bottom or a springform one so that you don’t lose all your flaked almonds when you turn it out.
Next, toss the gooseberries in the sugar that you kept aside and spread them on top of the cake. They will sink during cooking. Bake at 180 degrees for 30 minutes then take out of the oven and sprinkle on the ground almonds. Bake for a further 15 mins or until firm to the touch. If the top of the cake is getting too brown, cover with foil during the last 10 mins cooking time.
To be eaten in the afternoon with a nice cup of tea, or for pudding with cream, mixed with elderflower cordial.

Wendy Barrett

In London the elderflowers are out. I always take this as a sign we are moving from spring to summer – although they do come out here a couple of weeks before the rest of the country. I like to make cordial with them which is dead easy to do and tastes supercharged compared to the stuff you can buy in the shops. 

Elderflowers are easy to recognise – in cities you find them on every unpromising bit of land, in the countryside just look in hedges. All parks in London have them somewhere. The flowers are cream coloured and grouped together in little umbrella shaped bunches. The season lasts about two weeks before the blossom start turning yellow and dying.

If you fancy following the cordial recipe below the tricky bit is getting hold of Citric Acid which you buy from a chemist. It comes in powder form and not everywhere stocks it. Once you find it i recommend buying their whole stock. Small, independent, out of town outlets are the best places to successfully score. 

To make the cordial pick 20-30 bunches of flowers. Give them a quick wash and put them in a large bowl. Then heat a litre of water and dissolve a 2lb bag of sugar into it. Turn the heat off, add 75 grams of citric acid and then pour this over the elderflowers. Cut up a couple of lemons, squeeze in the juice and then add the lemons too. Put a tea towel over the bowl and leave it for 24 hours (don’t worry if you leave it for longer). Then, drain it through a sieve into an old plastic bottle. I half- heartedly sterilise the bottle by rinsing it with boiling water. If you are using plastic bottles you need to do it quickly as the heat makes the bottle go wonky.

If it doesn’t taste amazing you can still fix it. Great cordial is all about balancing the sweetness with the acidity. Taste it and you can easily work what needs to be added. If you have run out of citric acid try adding more lemon juice. If you need to add sugar, it helps to warm the mixture to dissolve it – but if you can’t be bothered to do that some sugar will get absorbed if you stir it enough when it is cold. 

Also in blossom at the moment is the blackthorn. The flowers look a little like elderflowers but don’t grow in the telltale umbrella bunches. They are no use now, but worth remembering where you saw them as this is where you will find sloes in the late Autumn.

Mathew Clayton

So there we were, me and Andrew, minding our own business, enjoying the first pint of the day (at The Cow in Westbourne Park, the perfect place to ease yourself gently into tomorrow’s hangover) when a bloke comes up and asks us how the beer is. We’d gone off-piste that morning when we each opted for a pint of Wandle, mainly due to the fact that Andrew lives near it and we’re soon to publish a fantastic piece on the clean up of the river for the Caught By The River book (out in June, just put to bed this week). The beer, we said, was truly excellent – the perfect mellow session starter (Christ, to think that we used to be Firestarters round here). The chap, it turns out, has brewed the beer – he’s one of the partner’s in the recently set up Sambrook’s Brewery.

Sambrooks have brought brewing back to Wandsworth – a rarer sight since the demise of the Young’s Ram Brewery there a few years back. We drank more of the brew and began singing it’s praises, probably to the point where said chap got a bit scared that he’d asked the question of the wrong people – two early morning CAMRA heads who he’d never manage to shake off, it would be all talk of casks and mash and can we have a free one please. Luckily for him, we scooted off to to another engagement. All we wanted to say was – David, your beer is superb, keep up the good work, it made our day yesterday.

Robin