Dare to be different

 Laetiporus sulphureus?

 Walking Byron through the park this morning, we spotted a bright yellow, orange fungus growing on the trunk of a felled oak. Naturally, curiosity compelled me to look it up; it appears to be Chicken-of-the Wood mushroom, completely edible and with the taste and texture of chicken when cooked, hence its name. As I said to a fellow dog walker who was also admiring it, I wouldn't like to eat it. By which, I meant I don't have sufficient faith in my identifying or cooking abilities to convincingly serve it on a plate to anyone. I would be more likely to end up like Erin Trudi Patterson, behind bars for taking out half my family! Surprisingly, my father used to take us mushrooming as children. We would leave early with dew on the ground and stop by some random field where he seemed to know they would be. We would pick a good number of huge things, get them home to wash and peel off the top skin, then he would cook them as part of a full English breakfast. He also foraged for other rural gifts: crab apples, cranberries, elderberries, and rose hips. He was brought up in an orphanage in London, miles from any countryside, so I have no idea where he learnt his foraging skills; but we all survived without mishaps. He was a good cook, doing unusual dishes such as roe on toast and French toast; his Bubble and Squeak has never been surpassed.

Clare was once a pleasant, quiet, quintessentially English village (or small town as they consider themselves), but has recently gone the way of so much of old England. The residents particularly attack anyone who infringes what the righteous see as their moral or aesthetic values and residents regularly post complaints of their neighbours, or pictures of cars to show minor misdemeanours. Clare residents particularly hate newcomers or people with different values to their own. The large Bell Hotel in Clare has been under financial difficulties for some while since it was sold off by Green King as unprofitable, leading to a succession of owners trying, but failing, to make a go of it. The last group were a wild but lively group who came with new ideas and promotional attempts, but the residents took against them, boycotting the pub, putting out adverse publicity, and generally making life unpleasant, until the new people were driven out (though they may not have helped their own cause by not paying the staff!) Now the 16th Century hotel sits empty again, slowly decaying with its corner chipped by passing lorries negotiating the tight bend round it.

The latest persecution is against a new shop setting up that has painted its front a bright colour, to attract notice and clients. Naturally, this has produced a massive backlash, trying to force them to repaint it a subdued pastel colour. The town did the same to an old, privately owned mid-terrace house once that was daringly painted purple. The cry goes out, "we'll end up looking like Tobermory, if this is allowed to carry on!" But what is wrong with Tobermory? It's brightly painted waterfront is known round the world and is a feature to attract tourists. Goodness knows, Clare could do with attracting a few tourists; it's character, it's shops, and the remaining pubs might have a chance of survival if the town only dared to be different.