A cep is not a mushroom. I know, I know, but hear me out. Think of it as prey and me as its hunter. My torch is a complicated thing of temperature sensors and variable beams, as precise as a rifle. I dial up the light to warn of and ward off the spiny fingers that clutch at my legs in the darkness of the wood – brambles… mostly. A tawny owl is ahead of me, perched along my path, watching for voles and shrews. I wish owls ate slugs, oh, and squirrels, the only two rivals for my prey.

My torchlight reveals a perfect nut-brown dome emerging from the newly fallen birch leaves. I crouch and feel around the base. A fat thing like a ghostly courgette. I probe the soil. Good, it is deep but softly held. A gentle tug and the four-inch stem eases from the litter. Dried earth clings to the lower stem. The dome is smooth and slightly moist with early dew. I could clean the whole stem – if I were a commercial hunter, I would gently brush the earth away. But I have no need for the eighty pounds a kilo, and a swift slice through the flesh cuts away the dirt and reveals a solid core with no worm holes. I check under the cap, and a tiny centipede is nestled in the crevice. “Sorry, buddy, that’s mine,” I murmur, and flick it away with the tip of the blade.

I grate the garlic directly into the sizzling Jersey butter. The cep is clean, sliced and resigned to its extreme unction. I lay each piece on the pan and allow it to brown. One minute – no more. A flip with a steel fork, a sprinkling of chopped parsley, a brief toss and I inhale the steam. My mouth waters. The sourdough is toasted. I arrange each golden slice of cep so that it slightly overlaps its predecessor. A ridiculous OCD pattern for something so short-lived. Then I pour the beurre noisette over the top. A grate of pepper and we are ready.

Like I said. Not a mushroom. Not just…