Here in the beech shade today I found a classic autumn drama: Honey Fungus, ๐ด๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ in full architectural form, stacked like russet tiles at the base of a beech. Known as Armillaire couleur de miel in French, Honingzwam in Dutch, you often see photos of these with wet, shiny caps, as though dipped in syrup, but that is only one chapter in their story. Catch them young and they can certainly be smooth and sticky, truly honey toned. Later they shift into this drier look, scales lifting and sharpening into a pattern like rough embroidery, far from a mid-life crisis. Give them a bit more time and the colour fades, caps flatten, and the whole colony slumps into winter fatigue.
These are the tree hunters, stealthy and deadly. Beneath the moss and leaves lie black bootlace threads, quietly moving through the forest floor, looking for weakened roots and tired wood. When the moment is right, up they come in tight clusters, a final flourish from a tree losing the battle. It is beautiful and ruthless, natural recycling.