The day dawned bright but unsettled after a stormy night that brought down many small branches, with the news that an outdoor concert in the local market town was disrupted by lightning, sending several people to hospital. One may imagine that once a paid-for concert is under way, a few rumbles of thunder and a little rain do not necessarily cause instant abandonment of the event: a direct hit is of course another matter.

I made use of the cool weather to cut a low branch from the Yew tree, giving shady space to walk and sit on the lawn. The Yew is next to a (very good) Fig, but the two could not be more different. The Fig rapidly sends out a cluster of long flexible shoots that quickly flop over and block the way; they are soft but brittle, and are easily sliced off. In a hard winter, all the above-ground parts of the tree died back, but it soon shot up again; none of the branches are specially long-lived, even the thickest of them. The Yew grows around a single vertical axis, where the seedling grew half a century ago. It is still, as Yews go, a young tree: some live a thousand years or more. The wood is tinged with a rich deep winy red, and is hard, tough, and springy. It was the perfect choice for making longbows: durable, water-resistant, practically impossible to break. Sawing through it is a challenge. Below the cut branch, I saw after felling it, was a little clump of Collared Parachute mushrooms, which Sterry and Hughes record as ‘very rarely under conifers’. I suppose Yew is not a typical conifer.

Collared Parachute mushroom, Marasmius rotula, showing off its elegant ‘parachute’, collar, and wheel effect (Latin rotula = little wheel). The stem is perhaps a millimetre thick, but quite strong and flexible.

I carted the cut pieces to the compost heap. The trees began to rustle and shake, the sky darkened abruptly, thunder rumbled and the rain lashed down again. Parachuting to safety seemed an appropriate metaphor.