WILD BROWSING

An interest in wild food was instilled within me in early childhood. Then, there were regular family outings to search the woods for hazelnuts and sweet chestnuts, or to walk the lanes filling old ice-cream tubs with blackberries.

My cooking skills are sorely lacking, so - with a few exceptions - I tend to browse and graze in the field rather than bring food back to the kitchen. I admire people who return home with armfuls of natural produce and busy themselves turning it into meals, preserves and drinks. But, despite the lessons from childhood, that’s not really my thing. I do, though, enjoy knowing what can be gleaned on a local walk and I’m constantly picking things to snack on. I don’t have many walks, even in midwinter, when at least one plant isn’t sampled, more through habit than hunger. Sometimes I’ll fill a pocket with nuts or berries that can be taken home to be eaten over the following few days. Less often, I’ll gather something that has to be cooked but only if it conforms to my slothful (but sacrosanct) ‘ten-minute rule’. These foods need some basic preparation back at home before they can be eaten but this is straightforward and can be done within the time allowed. Not many things make the cut.

The benefits of eating wild plants extend to far more than the food itself. For me, it’s more about the connection this brings with the local landscape. There is something remarkably life affirming about the act of picking and eating things that you have tracked down and identified for yourself. This presumably stems from the hunter-gatherer instinct that is there, somewhere, in all of us.

There is, of course, a connection when watching (rather than eating) wildlife but it doesn’t run nearly so deep. When you have foraging on your mind you become more intensely aware of subtle seasonal changes as different species rise in prominence and then fade from the scene for another year. A good autumn for Chanterelle fungi is more memorable to me than, say, a good autumn for Red Admirals because it is reinforced through the processes of searching, harvesting and consuming. This is hands-on and it engages more of the senses - all of them in fact, with smell being important to identify certain plants and fungi. It also pulls me back to the same places year after year, hoping for more of the same. And it helps me to appreciate year to year variations, and to ponder the reasons behind them.

There are other benefits that are simply not available by any other means - at any price. Much as people who grow their own vegetables struggle with the taste of shop-bought produce, the same is true with wild food. Try replicating the taste of Parasol mushrooms, gathered in their prime from a local grassland and on the plate within the hour. Or how about fresh hazelnuts pulled down by hand from the yellowing autumn foliage. A trip to the supermarket won’t help. You can’t buy the Parasols and whilst you might find the nuts, they’ll be a domesticated version and will have been lying around in a dusty warehouse, or on the shelves, for who knows how many weeks.

Questions are sometimes raised about the impacts of harvesting on wildlife and on the enjoyment of other people. While this hardly applies to a little harmless browsing, it’s worth pausing to consider. There is an awful lot of untapped wild food out there and a great deal more use could be made of it before there is any serious threat of depletion.

Removing food from the countryside can clearly have impacts on wildlife - some of them negative. After all, it is sustenance for other creatures too. The litmus test for foraging is not whether there are no impacts, but whether the impacts are lower than the alternatives. These vary hugely, but I’d be confident that locally sourced wild food comes out on the right side of the equation 99 per cent of the time when compared with the closest super­market equivalent. Anything gathered close to home or collected opportunistically when out and about doing other things has a food mileage of zero. In eating it, you are reducing consumption of shop-bought food with levels of sustainability ranging from tolerable to ludicrous.

As with anything, the actions of any one individual have only a tiny impact on the way the world works. But they do make a difference, and if you can persuade a few others to join you, that helps all the more. I’m reminded of something George Monbiot wrote about the benefits of trying to act positively rather than giving up in despair (in respect of climate change, but the same applies here). Why should individuals even bother trying to minimise their impacts when global behaviour patterns mean we will inevitably lose much of what we hold dear? Well, if all we can do is help to ‘draw out the losses over as long a period as possible, in order to allow our children and grandchildren to experience something of the wonder and delight in the natural world... is that not a worthy aim, even if there were no other?’ Wild food can help with that, in a tiny, but nevertheless worthwhile, way.

Before taking the plunge it’s important to keep in mind that, contrary to the many advertising slogans, ‘natural’ does not always equate to ‘beneficial’. Plants have been defending themselves against herbivores for generations and have come up with an impressive armoury of chemicals for protection. Ironically, some of these deterrents are what gives a plant its appealing taste (see Wild Garlic below); they can be effective against many animals, while having no adverse effects on humans. Equally, there are plants and fungi that are much nibbled by wild animals - something that was once taken as a sign they were good to eat - but are lethally toxic to humans. For us they may be edible, but only once, as the old saying goes.

Some poisonous plants will kill you quickly, others result in protracted period of indescribably gruesome symptoms before the welcome release of death. There are fungi that are fine to eat unless consumed at the same time as alcohol. Others are poisonous when raw but good to eat after cooking. And a few seem fine when eaten the first few times but result in a gradual build-up of toxins which take effect only after an invisible and unknowable threshold has been reached. Then there are the species that were once considered edible but for which recent research has called that into question. Comfrey was a plant much used in herbal remedies and is still listed as edible in some books; however, it is now thought that it can result in serious liver damage.

Even useful plants must be treated with respect. Foxgloves contain the chemical digitalis, which in a carefully measured dose is used to regulate heart function. But eat a few leaves and it will stop, rather than slow, your heart. Deadly Nightshade is another lethally poisonous plant and has attractive, shiny black berries that could easily tempt the unwary. The toxin, atropine, causes the heart rate to increase. Overdose on digitalis from Foxgloves and atropine from Deadly Nightshade might just save you, but get the balance slightly wrong and they will be the last things you eat.

Such a wide range of different effects may seem surprising, until you consider the evolutionary history. Plants and fungi have lived alongside animals, including humans, for millions of years, over which time a complex web of interactions and effects has developed. Plants sometimes make use of animals to help disperse their seeds. They offer us a tasty edible coating in the hope that we will consume the berry and deposit the seed elsewhere with a handy dollop of fertiliser. But they also defend themselves when necessary, by physical means such as hard shells, spines and prickly leaves, or through chemical warfare.

If you think you might like to dabble in wild foods, the plants and fungi mentioned below are perfect species to start with. They are all common and widespread, not too difficult to find or identify, and taken together provide something to target all year-round. It’s worth stressing that you don’t need to be an expert. If you can learn just a handful of species to start off, your walks will begin to provide added interest, and a little healthy food to go with the exercise. If you’re unfamiliar with the plants below, then a decent book (or website) will be needed to get started but each one can be learnt in just a few minutes. Most of these species can be eaten raw when out and about, but the final few sneak in through the (non-negotiable) ten-minute rule.

Hairy Bitter-cress

This low-growing and unassuming plant has quite a bit going for it and is well worth the effort to learn. It has the delightful habit of bringing wild food to your back door as it often grows as a garden weed, springing up in flowerpots, the gaps between patio paving slabs or around the edges of flowerbeds.

It doesn’t entirely live up to its name in that it’s not especially hairy and it doesn’t taste bitter, though the ‘cress’ part, at least, is spot on. It can be used in salads or in sandwiches and I find it a great fall-back for days when I haven’t been able to get out into the countryside. I can wander into the garden at lunchtime and brighten up a cheese sandwich with a sprinkling of leaves. The elongated seed pods are also edible, though the tiny seeds are eaten by small finches and other species, so leave some in place if you want to attract birds to your garden. There are a few similar but less common bitter-cresses and the well-known pink-bloomed Cuckooflower (or Lady’s Smock) is also part of the same group. All are edible, with varying degrees of spiciness, so a bit of experimentation is worthwhile.

Wood-sorrel

This small, delicate and distinctive plant is easy to overlook with its diminutive stature and uniform pale-green colour, but once you start looking, you’ll begin to notice it regularly. The heart-shaped leaves can be found throughout the year in a wide range of habitats, though it is less common, and the leaves drier and tougher, during the winter months. Occasionally it carpets small areas of ancient woodland and when the delicately pink-lined, white flowers emerge, often around Easter, they make an attractive display.

Closely related plants in North America are known as ‘sour grass’ and that gives a clue to the taste. The small leaves have a surprisingly strong, sharp tang to them, not unlike lemons though not so overpowering. I’ve never been more adventurous than to graze on the leaves during a walk but you could use them in salads to liven them up a bit, or even try adding them to more savoury dishes to enhance the flavour. The leaves are high in vitamin C.

Common Sorrel

Many common garden ‘weeds’ are technically edible but hard to get excited about. The Dandelion is perhaps the most abundant and is no doubt very good for you but the leaves are undeniably bland. Common Sorrel, another widespread grassland plant prone to appearing on unkempt lawns, at least has a bit of bite to it. The taste of the fresh leaves is often likened to apple peel - pleasant enough, if rather chewy and with a slightly acidic kick.

This plant is in the Dock family and unrelated to Wood-sorrel, despite the fact that the species share an acidic taste: they both contain oxalic acid, presumably as a defence against insect pests and grazing animals. It can also be toxic for humans but only in quantities sufficiently large that the casual forager need have no concerns.

The leaves of Common Sorrel are distinctive once you get your eye in, being arrow-shaped with obvious pointed lobes at the base. The closely related Sheep’s Sorrel looks similar, is also edible and tastes much the same. The leaves are mostly green, but a few become tinged with red, as if anticipating the autumn.

They are found throughout the year, providing something to chew on even in midwinter when not much else is available.

Wild Garlic

Wild Garlic, or Ramsons as it’s sometimes called, is one of the most eagerly awaited plants of the spring for its aesthetic appeal as well as its flavour. It has become very trendy in restaurants in recent years as more and more chefs tap into the popularity of wild food. By late April it carpets the floor of ancient woodland where conditions are right, a haze of white flowers floating above the longer-established green leaves. It’s often found in the same place as Bluebells, and the flowers usually peak at about the same time, producing a dazzling display.

All parts of the plant are edible, though it’s usually the leaves that are harvested. They are at their best in the early spring when newly emerged and tender. The strong garlic smell is most apparent when the leaves are crushed but you sometimes catch a hint of it even before you’ve entered the wood. The scent is handy for confirming the identification, as some superficially similar spring plants contain unpleasant toxins for self-defence; they are emerging at a time of year when any fresh growth is highly appealing to herbivores worn down by the rigours of winter.

The way the scent of garlic is released on crushing suggests that this too is a defence mechanism, deployed to its fullest extent when the plant is under attack. It seems to be very successful, judging by the dominance of the plant in favoured locations. It works well in deterring some humans too - though for those who do enjoy eating it, it is beneficial rather than harmful, acting as an antioxidant and apparently helping to reduce cholesterol levels. It is also reputed to lower blood pressure, as does the stroll through the woods to find it.

The taste is less overpowering than garlic from the supermarket and goes especially well with tomato and cheese. Try a few leaves in a sandwich and you might find yourself adopting a new annual ritual in early March, scouring your local woods for the first fresh leaves of the year.

Mint

The smell of mint induces a feeling of nostalgia that no other plant can match. One of the few jobs I was trusted not to mess up as a small child was to go out into the back garden to gather a few mint leaves for the Sunday roast. It must have been the first plant I learnt to recognise and put a name to; fifty years on the scent still takes me back to those hazy, faraway days.

There are a number of different wild mint species that all look rather similar, especially before they begin to flower. They also hybridise readily which makes things even more complicated. As a non-botanist I’m afraid I tend to lump them all together. Thankfully, so long as your plant looks and, equally important, smells like mint then it is safe to use.

As well as its traditional use to bring out the flavour in roast lamb, the leaves make a refreshing drink. It’s a nice way to end a walk if you can locate a handy patch of plants as you near home. Just nip off the uppermost whorls of leaves from two or three plants and add recently boiled water. The flavour intensifies as the leaves continue to stew, so remove them once you have a drink that suits.

Wild Strawberry

‘Doubtless God could have made a better berry, but doubtless God never did.’ So said a Dr William Butler in the seventeenth century and, some 400 years later, it’s hard to argue with him. This is a delightful plant, with delicate white flowers and, if your luck is in, irresistible red berries. The plant is a diminutive version of the familiar cultivated strawberry and so identification poses few problems. It tends to grow in small clumps and favours poor soils where it is not swamped by more vigorous competitors. In much of our nutrient-soaked countryside it risks drowning in a sea of tall grasses and Cow Parsley, and the berries can be hidden from view even if the plants cling to survival.

Wild Strawberry fruits are often available for just a few weeks each year in any one place (which adds to their appeal), though a longer season is possible if you can find them growing in different situations. Much like Bluebells and Primroses, plants growing within the shade of woodland can be well behind those in a more open situation.

The taste is just what you’d expect from a strawberry and more than a match for the cultivated equivalent. If it has a problem it’s the tiny size of the fruits. Perhaps 10 or 12 would be needed to match the volume of just one typically sized supermarket strawberry. This makes it difficult to gather them in meaningful amounts, but they are perfect for snacking on.

Blackberry

There can’t be many people who haven’t picked and eaten this fruit at one time or another. After all, we have been eating them for a long time; the seeds have been found in human remains unearthed from the Bronze Age, over 3,000 years ago. Modern parents who are wary (or unaware) of almost all other forms of wild food will happily send their kids out blackberrying. The bushes have a knack for brightening up places that are otherwise dull and lacking in alternative wild foods. Even in urban areas and the most intensively managed farmland, an exploratory walk is likely to turn up a bush or two.

The berries have a long season. The pioneers ripen as early as June in some years and can then be found well into the early winter in mild conditions, though the taste tends to deteriorate late in the season. Some blame the Devil for spitting on them on Michaelmas day (29 September) but flies and autumn moulds are the more likely explanation. It’s not just humans that relish blackberries. Insects, birds and small mammals all take advantage. I once watched a Roe Deer working along a hedgerow, pausing often to delicately select and remove the sweetest, ripest berry from the end of each shoot. Our Cocker Spaniel has learnt the same trick. Now, when I stop to pick berries, she breaks from her walk too, hoping for some low-hanging fruit.

Rather like exotically coloured but commonplace garden birds such as the Blue Tit and Great Tit, you suspect our appreciation for blackberries has been dulled by their ubiquity. The human brain relishes a challenge and something that is ridiculously easy to find becomes less appreciated, however good it looks or tastes.

Wild Raspberry

Although not so common or noticeable as the blackberry, this plant can be found widely across the country in sunny woodland clearings and along tangled hedgerows. The plants produce fruits that are similar to the cultivated varieties, though they are usually smaller. The similarity leads people to believe they are escapes from cultivation, even when found well away from civilisation. On the contrary, this is a genuinely wild, native plant, with a long history, and is all the more enjoyable for that.

The plants are not defended as heavily as brambles and the small thorns are less likely than their thuggish relative to shred your skin, or even your clothes, during the gathering process. Another advantage is their early season. The fruits often ripen ahead of the blackberry. Where the two plants grow together, ripe raspberries can hide in plain sight, masquerading as unripe red blackberries.

Hazelnut

This is one of my favourite wild foods. Between early August and October (in a good year) I don’t go for many local walks without risking my teeth and cracking open at least one or two. A good test as to whether the nuts are ripe enough to be worth collecting is to try to squeeze them out from their holders. If they slip out into your hand then they are ready. My dad tells me that kids in his day referred to them as ‘slippers’ for this reason; a quick online search for this term found nothing but footwear, so I presume it was local Gloucestershire slang rather than in wider use. The nuts keep well, easily lasting until Christmas and beyond, and the taste changes subtly as they age

- they lose some of their crunchiness as they dry out, and become slightly sweeter.

The Hazel would have been one of the first trees to recolonise Britain following the last ice age and it’s easy to feel something of a connection with ancient landscapes when eating the nuts: animals (including people) have been doing the same thing, in much the same places, for thousands of years.

In modern Britain too, you will likely face some stiff compe­tition - so much so that it’s a rare treat to find a fully ripe, deep-brown coloured nut in October. Usually, you must gather them earlier in the season when the shells still have some green in them, though they taste delicious nonetheless. It’s not fellow humans that are pinching them these days. Rather, it’s the introduced Grey Squirrel that does the damage. If you are too late reaching the trees, they will be bare, the nuts transformed into a dispiriting clutter of split shells on the ground below.

Grey Squirrels are so effective at stripping Hazels that this surely has impacts on native species that also enjoy these nuts

- the declining Common Dormouse for example. It also makes me wonder whether our native Red Squirrels were just as efficient at nut harvesting before they were pushed out by the Greys?

Sweet Chestnut

This is not a native tree but it has been established in Britain for around 2,000 years and the nuts have long been exploited by humans. They only ripen well in certain years and, even then, only on a subset of the mature trees - so if the first tree is unproductive don’t give up. Climate change may help in fUture, as the tree’s native range includes southern Europe and North Africa.

The nuts tend to ripen and fall from the trees in late autumn and can be found well into November, when most other fruits and nuts are over. I can’t resist eating them raw, though they have a slightly dry and bitter taste. It’s best to scrape away the fibrous coating after removing the glossy-brown shell or it can be like trying to chew through a mouthful of fluff. If they are still in their green outer cases then gloves (or a stout boot) will be needed to release them; the prickles have been superbly well honed by evolution, making them almost impossible to handle.

Traditionally, of course, chestnuts are roasted over a fire, with holes pricked into the shell to help the heating process and release the hot gas that otherwise builds up inside. A neat trick to help gauge when they are ready is to leave one or two with un-pricked shells. When these explode, the rest are ready to eat. This rarely works perfectly but is a great way to keep a room full of drowsy Christmas visitors on their toes.

Sloes

I do admire people who produce their own wine from flowers, fruits or leaves gleaned from the countryside. It seems to require lots of faffing about with all sorts of different ingredients, and endless decanting of fluids from one vessel to another - followed by a long, nerve-wracking wait to see if it has worked. I’m sure, once you get the hang of things, it’s easier than it appears. But in case you never do, I’d recommend sloe gin (or even sloe vodka) as an altogether simpler alternative.

Making sloe gin really is as easy as picking the sloes in the autumn, adding them to a jar or bottle and tipping some gin on top. Unlike in wine-making, there is very little that can go wrong. If the sloes are still hard when picked then it’s worth pricking them to help allow the flavour to seep out. Some people spike them with one of the defensive thorns, handily provided by the Blackthorn bushes, as they are picked. Alternatively, you can wait until after the first significant frost has done the work for you by softening the fruits, though these days it may come too late, when the berries have already shrivelled and become unusable. If you add sugar and perhaps a drop of almond essence to the mix when you start, it will sweeten the end product.

Ideally, sloe gin needs to be left for a few months at least and the longer you resist temptation, the more the flavour and the rich purple colour intensifies. Making it in October for Christmas is fine if the holiday spirit means you can wait no longer. But try leaving at least one bottle for a full six months, or even until the following Christmas, just to experience the difference. If you’ve ever tasted the sour fruits straight from the tree, you’ll be amazed that such a rich and pleasant flavour could possibly be lurking within them.

Parasol mushroom

Picking mushrooms, or fungi, is not dissimilar to foraging for apples or blackberries in that you are removing a few of the reproductive structures but leaving the main body of the organism safely intact. Parasols make for an impressive sight when they grow in numbers. At first, they look like chicken drumsticks but gradually the cap develops and flattens out, sometimes approaching a small dinner-plate in size, the tall stems making them visible from a distance. Once the caps have expanded to their full size it’s hard to confuse them with any other species.

You can eat the caps raw but cooking is the best option. My culinary skills don’t extend much beyond ‘putting things on toast’, so these are perfect. They don’t even need to be cut up if you can find a nice slice-of-bread sized specimen, and they have a strong, nutty flavour. Preparation involves nothing more than wiping them clean, discarding the tough stem, and adding to a frying pan with a knob of butter and perhaps a garlic clove or two.

Puffballs

There are a few different species of puffball, ranging in size from the small, spiny, Common Puffball and its close relatives, to the altogether more impressive, football-sized Giant Puffball. The stalks are often hidden underground, leaving just the rotund fruiting body visible from above. The good news is that all the similar-looking species are edible, so the subtle differences between them aren’t worth worrying about - unless you enjoy worrying about such things. Do, though, watch out for the superficially similar earth-balls which have tougher, thicker, scaly skins and an off-white (rather than pure white) inner flesh, even when young.

The smaller puffballs are very common and while they may not be the tastiest of wild fungi they are still preferable to most shop-bought varieties. They are only good to eat when young, when the flesh inside is still white. As they mature and the spores ripen, the flesh dries out and starts to yellow, eventually reaching the final ‘puffing’ phase which gives them their name. These are the familiar brown papery structures that children (and adults) can’t resist stamping on to send a dark puff of spores shooting into the air. This might seem a bit mindless, but it’s helping to secure the future of the species so don’t feel bad about it. If an accommodating human doesn’t find them, passing animals or even drops of rain will hopefully do the same job.

If you find a promising group of puffballs it’s worth cutting one open in the field just to check that it’s still young enough to eat. That avoids the risk of harvesting a batch only to find, once you get home, that they are all past their best. If you have the patience, you can peel off the outer skins before cooking as they are much tougher than the flesh inside and a little too chewy for the more discerning palate.

Chanterelle

I’ve left this one until last because it’s a little more challenging to find and identify. The effort, though, is well worthwhile. This is perhaps the finest of all our wild fungi. On the continent, people have been known to come to blows over a profitable patch of Chanterelles, though in my local Devon countryside I’ve yet to encounter anyone else with the slightest interest in them - which is fine with me.

When it comes to finding them, the fact that they are bright yellow-orange is helpful. On a gloomy day in woodland they seem to glow up from the leaf-litter and can be spotted from a distance. Sometimes I pick up their soft scent of apricots before I’ve seen them, and this is a useful test to make sure of the identification. Try searching in woods with oak, beech or pine trees between August and October, and look along ditches or hedge-banks rather than wandering into the middle of a large expanse of forest.

These mushrooms take just a few minutes to turn into lunch: cooking them is as simple as adding butter and garlic to a frying pan, cleaning away any obvious dirt and lobbing them in - small ones whole, larger ones cut into pieces. Then just put them on toast. If you don’t like the result then you will have found out something useful: foraging for wild fungi of any kind is probably not for you.