Hunting for truffles in British woodland

We are racing through country lanes, beech trees closing in around us. In the back of the van, Zebedee the truffle hound howls hopefully. “He knows we’re close. He can smell it,” says Melissa Waddingham, his owner and a truffle hunter who is taking me deep into the South Downs to teach me what she knows.

It is a beautiful morning – one of those November days that pretends summer hasn’t ended. But still, when we step out of the car, there is a nip in the air. “That’s good,” says Melissa, judging the temperature. “A long, dry summer isn’t kind to fungi. They need rain and autumnal chill.”

I am not allowed to reveal our location. Partly, this is to protect the fungi – in the New Forest and Epping Forest, gangs of foragers operate on a commercial scale, sweeping fragile woodland and selling their finds to restaurants. Environmentalists and mycologists are concerned that fungi are being taken recklessly, with little thought for preserving the habitat for next year. Melissa rarely sees foragers in this wood, and wants to keep it that way. Most weekends she takes groups out here, teaching them how to identify and forage for fungi with respect for the environment.

I can tell you that we are in a youngish beech wood, ideal for truffles as beech is a host tree. Today we are looking for Tuber aestivum, the black summer truffle that is one of the best edible truffles growing in Britain. Like many fungi, they have a mycorrhizal (symbiotic) relationship with the trees – the fungi’s web-like mycelium attach to the tree root system and then produce fruit (the truffle itself) in the autumn and winter. In return, the fungi supplies the tree with nutrients and water.

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Despite the pungent smell of the truffle, we wouldn’t stand a chance without the help of Melissa’s trusty sidekicks – seven-year-old Zebedee, an experienced truffle-hunting labrador, and a cocker spaniel, Ella – an excitable 13-month-old trainee who dives straight for a mouse hole, bottom in the air.

Melissa can read Zebedee’s body language. If he’s digging vigorously, earth flying everywhere, it’s an animal hole. If it’s a truffle, he’ll be gentle, carefully moving the dirt aside with his paws, as if he knows not to damage the precious fungus buried just below the surface.

“Look for truffle, look for truffle!” Melissa calls to the dogs. “Find it, find it!” Melissa is dressed for the hunt in khaki trousers and cap, with a small hand rake looped through her belt. She trots along behind the dogs, looking eagerly through her glasses, studying Zebedee’s movements. Then she spots him, snout to the soil and digging. “Stop, stop, stop! ” she shouts, hurtling over to him, dropping to her knees and plunging her nose to the ground. “Nope! That’s badger latrine.”

We press on, eyes combing the ground for tell-tale signs of turned-up earth. Truffles are prized by many forest animals, and badgers might begin to dig one up before being scared off. Every few metres, Melissa drops down on all fours, not unlike a woodland creature herself, snouting about in the leaves, raking the earth in search of that distinctive truffle whiff.

As we go, she points out other fungi – dainty little clusters of mycenoid mushrooms, with their smooth beanie hats and long, thin stalks; bizarre purple blewits, glowing like something from outer space among the burnt orange beech leaves; sinister, veined jelly-ears, clinging flabbily to a fallen tree trunk. I decide that fungi are my new obsession.

Then Melissa’s off again, diving to the ground before Zebedee scoffs his find. “That’s truffle!” she announces in triumph, calling me over. I take a deep sniff of the earth. The smell is unmistakable – a sweet, heady scent, which seems much sharper than the deep, musky, sex smell I know from truffles in Italian restaurants.

Melissa digs, being careful not to go too deep and damage the beech roots. I feel a piratical thrill at being so close to the treasure. When the truffle is finally revealed, it holds us in thrall - its knobbly black head just surfacing from the earth. We pull it free, and Melissa passes it to me. It’s a little bulbous nugget, around the size of a £2 coin, and I’m struck by how firm it is. The smell isn’t as pungent close up – it’s been infusing the soil, but it’s not until I cut it open that I’ll get the full hit.

For the next four hours, we tramp happily through the woods, and by the end of the day I’ve got six truffles to take home. That evening, I clean them carefully with water and a toothbrush, then grate three of them over scrambled eggs. The taste and smell is truffle all right, though a fresher, more summery version of their pungent Italian cousins. The meal is over far too soon, and my thoughts turn to my own dog, Tug. Just how hard can it be to train a truffle hound, I wonder?

How to clean and store your truffles

Give them a vigorous scrub with a nail–brush under cold water to get the mud off. Wrap each truffle in kitchen paper, and store in a clean glass jar. They will keep
for around 10 days in the fridge.

Truffle season runs into January. To book an outing with Melissa, go to truffleandmushroomhunter.com