Walking in the woods one day

By Ray Wilson

“I think I’ve got chemtrail sniffles,” my missus tells me.

“You had better start…” I begin.

“On the Suramin, every hour on the hour, I know I started on it,” she interjects.

I leave the missus to recuperate. It’s dank; a cloying greyness hangs over the forest. My hound sniffs at the path and claws at the ground.

“Come on, pup,” I stroke her neck, “we had better get going—we have miles to go before we can sleep.”

The magic of nature unburdens my mind—the trees are a protective canopy against the grey, toxic skies and a shield against electromagnetic radiation. As I continue my walk, I can feel the healing energy of the forest enveloping me, soothing my worries and clearing my mind.

My hound tugs on her lead; she wants to go down to the secluded clearing deep within the ancient Ashdown forest. The tall trees tower overhead, their leaves forming a thick canopy that only sunlight can penetrate—today it is dark. The air is filled with the earthy scent of moss, decaying leaves, and the faint aroma of mushrooms. My hound tugs hard on her lead as we head down a steep slope towards the bubbling stream.

“Whoa there-pup-hold up.”
In the midst of this tranquil setting, a gentleman steps out from the trees.

“Sorry, I am just dressing—I mean ,” he says showing me a large brown paper bag brimming with mushrooms.

“I love the forest; you are the first human I have seen in over three hours.” His hands move animatedly, accentuating his words as he describes the wonders of mycelium—the underground network of thread-like structures that forms the foundation of all mushrooms.

“The mycelium,” he says with a gleam in his eye, “is like the internet of the forest. It’s a vast, interconnected network that communicates with plants, sharing nutrients and information. It’s alive, dynamic, always reaching out, always connecting.”
I nod thoughtfully, “It’s a bit like the way people connected during the COVID fiasco that tore so many friends and family apart.”

He smiles, a beaming smile, and adds, “Yes, it’s a reminder of the power of connection and resilience in times of adversity.”
“O man, you are one of us—I sort of knew it—are you walking this way?” he asks, pointing to the pathway up towards the road.”

My hound is busily digging up gnarled roots and chewing on them. His eyes are fixed on a cluster of small, golden mushrooms growing at the base of a nearby oak tree.

“I will walk with you,” I say.

“Indeed,” he replies, his voice soft but filled with curiosity.

“It’s a remarkable system,” I say, “a communication system.”

“Yes indeed, some mycelium networks can stretch for miles, forming one of the largest living organisms on Earth, and they can survive for thousands of years.” But it’s not just about size, you see. Mycelium breaks down organic matter, recycles nutrients, and even helps plants communicate distress signals when they’re under attack by pests.”

“Ah,” I interject, “you mean the concept of the ‘Wood Wide Web.’ It’s fascinating to think trees might be more connected to each other than we ever imagined, using fungi as their messengers.”

He nods eagerly. “Precisely! And don’t forget the medicinal properties. Some mushrooms, like the Reishi or Lion’s Mane, have been used for centuries in traditional medicine. They’re believed to boost the immune system, support cognitive function, and even combat ageing.”

“I wish I had known earlier,” he confides in me, “I should have done this years ago—I have a little laboratory at home—I make tinctures from mushrooms—to help with cancers and brain function—you know dementia can be reversed?”

“Yes,” I say with a smile, “the power of mushrooms is truly remarkable—many of us have found new knowledge or re-learnt old knowledge because of COVID.”

He looks at me.

“When COVID struck—I remember I was driving to the shop—Some of my friends masked up wearing rubber gloves, banging saucepans, and staring vacantly at the sky—they shouted angrily at me—come and join us.”
“What for?” I asked them.
“Its for the NHS—you have to—I went straight home and I burst into tears—I suddenly realised what was going on.”
“Now the forest is my culinary world! Truffles, chanterelles, chicken of the woods… There’s an entire gastronomic universe tied to these fungi. It’s amazing how something so small can be so essential, from the soil to the kitchen table.”

“I was very lucky,” I tell him about my exploits as a first responder during COVID-56 hours and not one call out—how my missus saw the scam for what it was but it split our family and friends—our communities brought down in controlled demolition of the traditions and relationships we hold dear. Doctors nipping into the office, waving to the camera on the way in, 30 minutes later slipping home out of the back door.”
We pause for a moment, listening to the faint rustle of the leaves in the gentle breeze. The forest around us seems alive with a hidden conversation of its own, as if eavesdropping on their dialogue about its unseen mysteries.

“My missus,” he says, “is a carer in the NHS—refused to take the jab—they put her under such enormous pressure—every day taunting her—in the end they sacked her—now we have a legal action going.”

He stoops down and picks up a small piece of wood covered in delicate white filaments. “This, my friend, is mycelium at work,” he says. “Breaking down dead matter, creating new life. It’s the ultimate recycler, the silent architect of the forest.”

“Indeed,” I reply, “we could learn a lot from the mycelium. Cooperation, connection, resilience. Perhaps the forest has more to teach us than we ever imagined.”
The phone rings, and he answers it.

“Hello, sorry, love, I won’t be long—just taking to a truther in woods,” he says, smiling at me.

“I will leave you to it,” I wave to him. As he walks away, I am left pondering the profound wisdom hidden within the forest, wondering what other secrets it holds for those willing to listen.