"There are no bears, no bears at all, no bears on Hemlock Mountain." This reassuring phrase from a childhood story-book recurs like a mantra as I take part in what is known as "the quiet hunt" deep in a Russian forest. There are no bears, I'm told, in these woods in the wilds of Muskovy; what are here, and what we seek, are mushrooms.
For Irish people of my generation, mushrooms evoke two images: clean, white little buttons in a laboratory-blue container which have known nothing other than black plastic refuse-sack covering and artificial lighting; or those brown fungi sought by hordes of teenagers and third-level students roaming the country fields, mountains and golf-courses in the hope of finding something that will make them go all funny.
Rich in protein
But the Russians describe mushrooms as the rich man's delicacy and the poor man's daily bread. Rich in protein, they have long been a staple in the Russian diet, often used as a substitute for meat. They grow in great abundance and variety - which makes the need to distinguish the edible from the inedible a matter of some skill. Of those fit for human consumption the most valued for its distinctive taste is the white beliy grib: from 6 cm to 15 cm in height, with a thick white trunk, this has a large, light-brown cap with white to yellow pores underneath, depending on its age. There is also a very pleasant smell. This mushroom can be fried fresh, dried for making winter soups, or pickled, as a delicious accompaniment to a shot of vodka. It is, understandably, described as the "king of mushrooms".
We will be lucky to find any this morning. The sites are unpredictable, as the fungi sprout in the space of one rainy night. As we search it seems almost as if they are hiding. As a novice I concentrate fiercely, keeping my eyes on the ground - which, in a forest, is not a good idea. I bump into trees, find pine-needles poking at my eyes, or cobwebs coating my face, with their resident spiders running into my nostrils in panic. Whole families of squirrels bombard me with hazelnuts, mosquitoes suck my sweet foreign blood, and the family dog returns from his forays to display the imprint of yet another malodorous mess on his stained spine, his only complaint being the wasps which follow his scent and which bite his pink bottom and black nose.
But this intense concentration and a considerable increase in oxygen levels can leave one exhausted, dizzy and despairing of ever finding even one mushroom worthy of the frying pan. I'm told to stop searching, to relax, to breathe deeply and slowly, to accept the forest, the damp and the cobwebs. It's only when the forest is respected that it will reveal all it has to offer. The mushrooms will find me, I'm told, rather than me finding them.
Red-headed sentinel
This becomes an addictive game of hide-and-seek. Our hunt in the forest reveals little clusters of different species, growing from a rotting treetrunk or nestling among the brown needles under a group of spruce, or a huge red-headed sentinel standing impudently upright in the middle of a green clearing, nourished by the rich bed of last year's decaying leaves. These are both beautiful and grotesque. Often, in the setting of a great forest, they assume poses identical to those childhood images of mushrooms and toadstools in fairy-tales, with all their associations of elves and goblins and the folklore of forest and mountain-side.
Moscow markets
As we search and find and pick the different kinds, we talk of family traditions and preferences. Everything depends on taste. Chanterelles (lissitchki or "foxies") are common in the forests. They are therefore cheap and are bought in huge quantities in the Moscow markets. Attractively yellow-orange in colour, they tastiest when fried . Other highly rated kinds include two named for the trees under which they grow - the brown mushroom ("under the beech") and the orange-cap boletus ("under the aspen"). Both are equally good fried, or in a soup with noodles or potatoes.
Now the dacha is filled with the tang of fried mushrooms. The cupboards are stocked for the winter, dried musrooms hang in strings over the cooker, jars of marinaded mushrooms fill the fridge, and as I fall into the sleep of exhaustion animated mushrooms seem to jump from tree to tree in my dreams.