It has been raining here, a lot. The place drips with water. The ground squelches underfoot. Our seeds germinate, the first leaves poke their heads above the earth and then turn round and dive back down. If George appears on his statue it is only briefly, and then wreathed in good Scottish mist; and, as one would expect....
....the fungi absolutely love it.
This is spring, for Goodness' sake. Fungi are autumnal things.
I take their pictures, my camera wet, and then try to identify them. Occasionally, I think I succeed. This may be Parasola plicatilis, also known, to confuse us, as Parasola plicatilis; or, in English, umbrella inky cap.
This one is very delicate, almost felty, and should be easy to identify. It isn't, but it's so pretty I might keep trying.
These ones are the fungal versions of little brown jobs. They live in meadowland by Dunrobin caste and should be identifiable. I've given up.
This intriguing slimy mess on a rotten log should, again, be easy to find. It may be a variety of witches' butter but it's too gelatinous and lacks form. Another for me to shrug my shoulders at.
This.... I'm not even sure it's a fungus. It's growing on a dead gorse branch that's been marinating in a ditch of peaty water all winter. The lower part is white, the upper bright yellow. If it isn't a fungus I haven't a clue what it is.
I like to live in an ordered world, where everything is nearly labelled and knows its place. Fungi frustrate me.
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