I took a different approach on this morning’s dog walk and followed my nose. Starting at Gresty’s Waste, we headed towards Old Pale, encountering a couple of stinkhorn fungi just before we crossed the A56. We smelled them before we saw them, a peppery stench of rotting flesh. The latin name Phallus impudicus means ‘shameless penis’ and a common name is deadman’s cock. This is presumably because it is bone white, fleshy and has an uncanny similarity that apparently moved Victorian naturalists to either blush or give it a sound thrashing to save ladies witnessing such a horror. Perverts.
In the aptly named Nettleford Woods, I tucked in my elbows and Caper bravely porpoised over any that had been flattened by last night’s storm. I caught one on a bare ankle, like a match struck across my skin. The ground was spongey and nettles gave way to bracken with its sour, sweaty odour. Apparently (based on folklore featured in Shakespeare’s Henry V) I should collect some of this fern’s tiny spores on the eve of June 23rd (St John’s Eve) to gain the power of invisibility. Watch this space!
As we climbed the sloping track to the top of Pale Heights we met a couple collecting elderflowers. Is it a bumper year for these as it was hawthorn blossom? The sweet froth of elderflower is unmistakably delicious, a citrus sherbet unlike sickly hawthorn. The smell of the latter divides opinion, some get almond and spice, while others smell sex and death. Apparently it’s the trimethylamine in the blooms – also one of the first aromas a decaying corpse releases. We get plague notes while insects find it irresistible.
As we looped back to complete our walk, the warm breeze carried traces of fragrant oil from the pine trees. Combined with the fine soil of the well-worn Sandstone Trail and the freshly washed grasses, the scent transported us to somewhere much more coastal. I’ll let this sense lead more often.