A trod path winds between bilberries and heather, a tussocky mossy understorey to a wood of silver birches. The softly mauve heather, fading now, combined with gnarly tree trunks, gives it the feeling of a fairy wood. We fill a tub with small dark bilberries, fingers stained iodine purple, tastier than any shop-bought blueberries.
Out into the sunlight, we cross a rough sheep pasture, long grass stalks swishing against bare legs. There, where the stock were fed last winter, a trampled muck-rich ring is studded with field mushrooms, domes of white flattening out as they age. We carry as many as we can in cupped hands to take home.
