What I saw as a landscape, they saw as mushrooms

The other day, on a Sunday, I was in Torrskog, visiting Hajo’s grave. It was sunny, lovely autumn weather. I’d taken the VW Multivan with me and, after my visit, made myself comfortable in front of the church.

Not far away, in the car park, there’s a walking map and a wooden table with benches. I made some coffee there and got my fika ready. I’d brought some apple cake with me as well.

Suddenly, a red car honked its horn up on the road. Inside were some acquaintances from Dals Långed whom I’d met some time ago. I waved them over and invited them in for coffee. Luckily, the cake was big enough for everyone.

They were on their way to go mushroom picking. Our fika together turned into an invitation: would I like to come along? So I left the bus behind and got into their car.

Fifteen spots and a different perspective

We drove round their fifteen or so mushroom-picking spots. What really amazed me wasn’t just how well they knew their way around. It was the speed with which they spotted things.

For me, at first, the landscape simply rolled past outside. Trees, forest edges, shades of green and brown that blended together as we drove. For them, the picture seemed much clearer. Time and again we stopped – sometimes briefly, sometimes for longer – got out and picked mushrooms.

I could identify porcini, chanterelles and honey mushrooms. I didn’t recognise the others. My companions, on the other hand, were experienced mushroom experts. They knew what they were looking for and, in what was still a jumbled picture to me, apparently found the crucial clues.

I couldn’t tell what they’d already spotted from the car: a mushroom, a promising spot, or something familiar to them from previous visits. It was probably a combination of several things. But the difference between their perspective and mine was glaringly obvious.

Recognising patterns where others see only colours

This pattern recognition continued to occupy my thoughts long after our outing.

I had the impression that they didn’t first have to examine every tree, every shadow and every uneven patch individually. They recognised something in the landscape that hadn’t yet stood out to me. Where I saw green and brown, they saw differences, clues and possibilities.

The family lives on the autism spectrum. They had developed an eye for mushrooms that I didn’t have. And they let me share in it.

As a result, the forest took on more definition for me. I couldn’t simply adopt their way of seeing things. But I began to look more closely – and at the same time realised how much I’d previously missed.

Searching together

For them, mushroom hunting wasn’t just a way of bringing home something edible. It was their way of spending time together, nurturing their relationships and relaxing.

That’s what I particularly liked about that afternoon. We didn’t need to plan anything elaborate. We drove, stopped, went into the woods and searched. Doing things together gave our time together a rhythm.

A chance encounter by the roadside had turned into a whole afternoon. First, I’d invited them to my coffee table. Then they took me to their mushroom spots and shared their knowledge with me.

A full boot

By the end, the boot was full of mushrooms. I had enough to cook with for several days; I froze some and dried the rest.

‘This year is an absolute mushroom year,’ we agreed. For us, at any rate, that’s how it felt after this outing.

I’d driven to Torrskog that morning to visit Hajo’s grave. I hadn’t planned on ending up in a different car later on, driving through the woods with friends and coming back with so many mushrooms.

It’s not just the mushrooms that have stayed with me. Above all, what remains is the memory of this difference in perspective: the same landscape passed us by – and yet we didn’t see the same thing.