I have said it before and I will undoubtedly say it again: notice the little things.
I say it so often that I suspect people brace themselves when I open my mouth.
This time, though, it was the little thing that noticed me.
I had stopped to photograph something on a fence. I will be honest, I wasn’t even sure what it was at first. A small, pale, odd shape caught my eye, and I thought: why is that there?
Why was that there?
It wasn’t a bird. It wasn’t a bit of litter. It wasn’t anything I could easily explain. It was just out of place enough to make me stop, and that is usually all it takes. Only for me to then see it was a mushroom. Hanging on the top of a fence like it was the most natural thing in the world.
So I stopped. Camera up. Little squint. The usual routine of someone who has long since given up pretending she is in a hurry.
I took the picture. I wound the film on. I was already half turning to walk away, pleased with myself for having been curious about nothing in particular.
And then I looked down.
There, tucked against the old wooden post, was this.
A toadstool. A proper, storybook, textbook toadstool. Bright red cap, scattered with creamy white flecks, like someone had shaken a sugar sifter over it and walked off. A pale, chunky stem, a bit ragged where it had pushed its way up through the leaves and grass.
It was leaning against the post as though it had been waiting for me.
I laughed out loud. On my own. In a field, or a lane, or wherever I was standing. [where was this?] Nobody there to see me, which is probably for the best.
Because here is the thing. If I hadn’t stopped for the odd little shape on the fence, I would never have looked down. I would have walked straight past.
I would have missed it.
It was such a loud little thing, too. Red, in all that brown. The leaves had gone every shade of tea and toast and rust, the grass was dry and tangled, and the post was weathered grey-green and soft with age. And in the middle of all that quiet, autumn colour, this one small, brazen, scarlet cap.
It looked like the only thing in the whole place that had made an effort.
I crouched down. This is not as graceful as it used to be, and there was a small noise from one of my knees that I chose to ignore. I got in as close as I dared without kneeling in anything damp.
I looked at the little white flecks. I looked at the cap, smooth and glossy where the spots had gone. I looked at the stem, with its pale, papery skirt, crumpled a little as if it had been slept in.
I did not touch it.
I want to be very clear about that. I am a woman who notices things, not a woman who forages. Everything I know about wild mushrooms could be written on the back of a bus ticket, and most of it would be: leave it alone.
So I left it alone.
I just looked.
And I thought about how often the thing I stop for isn’t the thing I end up with.
I stopped for one small oddity and was handed another. A better one. A bigger one, really, though it was only the size of my fist.
It happens more than you would think. A walk to the post box turns into ten minutes watching light move across a wall. A trip to the shop turns into a photograph of a stack of crates. You set off with one idea and the day quietly swaps it for something else.
I have started to trust that.
I used to feel I should know what I was looking for. A plan. A subject. A reason.
Now I think the reason is the looking.
That sounds a bit grand for a mushroom, I know.
But there you are.
Some days the little thing is on the fence, and some days it’s at your feet, and some days you have to stop for one thing to be allowed to see the other.
I like that. I like that you can’t hurry it.
I took a few more frames, just to be sure. Film is not cheap, and I am not a woman who wastes it lightly, but I felt this one had earned it.
Then I stood up, brushed the leaves off my coat, and gave the post a small, absurd little nod, as if we had come to an understanding.
I am quite sure the mushroom was unmoved.
But I walked home a bit lighter, a bit pinker in the cheeks, and with the distinct feeling that the day had been generous.
All because I wondered why something was on a fence.
Who knew?
Next time you stop for one little thing, do glance down. There may be a small red hat waiting, looking terribly pleased with itself.