MUSHROOM CROWDS

I wrote this years ago and never published it.                                          

                                           

The Spanish take their festivals very seriously; none more so than the Aragonese. Their

autumn holiday dedicated to the little statue of the Virgin Mary on a pillar is when the

city of Zaragoza really is seen at its best. Giants parade the streets: every village or town

in Spain has some of these  three metre tall human frames made of papier maché. They

are carried by strong men hidden in the long robes or skirts of the kings and queens.

Common they may be, but little children still stare and gasp. Their more comic

counterparts, the “cabezudos” (bigheads) run amok, chasing and throwing sweets.  

There are funfairs, circuses with lions and tigers. Folk groups come from all over the

region. They have been practising for weeks, with the heavy thumps of dance steps on

board floors and the wailing voices of singers sounding far later into the night than

usual.

The “Offering” to the diminutive “Virgin of the Pillar” is central to the festival. She is

brought out of her basilica into the square to receive the floral tribute. Thousands of

devotees fill the streets of the city centre. There is a pervading smell of mothballs,

because for this special day only,  many people wear regional costumes.

They take their folk-finery out of storage and wear it to take part in laying the great

pyramid of flowers before the city’s patroness. Men tie the emblematic red or purple

“cachirulo” round their brows. They wear knee-breeches and wide sashes. Women and

girls are more colourful in full skirts and bright silk-fringed shawls. If the sun shines, it

is all very pretty, looking like a painting by Goya at his most bucolic. It is also very

crowded. Our neighbour, Fermín, tells me that he was literally carried along by the

crowds once; swept bodily into the basilica square.

This kind of festivity, however, is not to everyone’s taste. If you do not feel inclined to

dress up and push, there is an alternative; one which is just as traditional. In the days

before the holiday, people ask:

                                      “Are you going down to Zaragoza, or the country?”

This year we opted for the latter, as many others do. Luckily, Aragón has enough space

to spread out in. We drove to the beautiful valley of Zuriza. Our object was to see the

autumn colours. Zuriza has slopes of mixed forest, going down to a winding river. In

the open spaces cattle grazed: bulls, cows, and calves which looked almost new-born.

They took no notice of us. Here and there, a car or van stood by the trackside. Near one

of these I looked up the slope of the hill and saw a man. He had a big knife in his hand,

which he hid when he noticed us. It seemed rather sinister until we realised:

                                        “He’s hunting for mushrooms!”

In this part of the country, collecting fungi is popular. The locals say that outsiders,

usually from neighbouring Catalonia, come and fill vans with these wild delicacies. You

can sense the resentment towards the wealthier “forasteros”, who take what nature gives

freely, and sell it in their marketplaces. Many villages have what has to be translated as

a “municipal toadstool patch”, where the mushrooms are protected for the residents to

pick, having paid for a licence. Later, we saw a woman with a basket of golden fungi

poised on her hip, but we were told that the weather had not been ideal. The best harvest

may be yet to come.

Some neighbours, nature lovers and intrepid mushroom gatherers, only managed to

find one small basketful. Some dubious specimens had to be left behind. There is a

centre in our Pyrenean town of Jaca, where you can take your finds to be identified by

experts. Some people do not bother. Fermín told me of a family he knew who had made

a mistake, and needed stomach- pumps all round. He added: “I know all the different

species. I won’t touch any of them!”

The children found a patch of tall, white domes close to our house. I don’t know a thing

about edible fungi.

                              “Treasure!” said Francisco, identifying them as “Coprinus comatus”.

                               “All for you!” I replied. He cut half a dozen and came back for more

the next day. Seeing that my neighbours were still alive, I cut the last one, fried and ate

it before I could change my mind. It tasted pretty good, almost good enough to make it

worth going to the country to search for them.

Personally, I would rather use my autumn holiday, not in the city crowds, nor with my

eyes on the ground  looking for the toadstool harvest, but looking up at the red and gold

trees on the hillsides, and the red kites and griffin vultures soaring overhead.