Yummy Snails

My Czech friend keeps urging me to grow vegetables. I always resist. For one thing it sounds like hard work, and then my regular trips to the UK mean that I am not always around to water the plants when they need it. But there is another very good reason why I think it would not be worth attempting - our local population of snails. After a rainstorm you can hardly fail to step on one - crunch, crunch, crunch is the soundtrack to a walk in the garden.

There are snails of all sizes and colours including some very pretty yellow and brown striped ones. But easily the most impressive are the monsters like the one shown above. These are the edible snails or the french escargot - helix pomatia. They occur naturally in the Czech Republic, as in many other parts of continental Europe. In Britain however they are rare and a protected species. In England they are to be found only of chalk or limestone soil and usually near old Roman sites, as they were introduced by the Romans as a delicacy and, having got into the wild, have not made it very far in the two millennia since their escape.

A week ago I was walking with my Czech friend in the English countryside near Chedworth in Gloucestershire and had just put a basket half full of St George's mushrooms into the car, when we were hailed by the local landowner. "What have you there?"

I showed him the basket and he relaxed. He explained that they have been having trouble with gangs of Poles harvesting the Roman snails, which get good money in the London restaurants, and that the Poles were also stripping the woods of wild fungi and causing damage in doing so. Of course both fungi and snails are common in the Poles' homeland.

It is legal to collect fungi for personal use in the UK but not commercially. And it is illegal to harvest a protected species like helix pomatia. The farmer was quite within his rights to challenge, especially as, unlike in Central Europe, the woods around Chedworth are private and visitors must keep to the footpaths. The Poles hadn't helped their argument by turning up mob-handed and in cars and vans with London registration plates, nor did they help themselves by pretending to be unable to speak English when challenged. As a result the farmer was challenging anyone who appeared with a basket in their hand. After he had left, my Czech friend commented on how wonderful it was that British farmers saw themselves of guardians of the countryside, unlike Czech ones. "If only that were true of all British farmers," I thought, but did not say.

Forced Rest

A fortnight ago I was trying to uncover such cobbles in the yard, when I sustained an injury. At the time it seemed nothing – I simply jarred my leg as my spade hit stone, it was sore that's all. I then compounded this by taking a long walk in the forest looking for mushrooms. It had been my intention to have a brief fungus foray, to gather just enough to give me something special for breakfast, but the farmer had put a bull in the field which the footpath crossed on my way to the woods and I only discovered this when the bull blocked the path behind me. I therefore had a longer trek of it than intended, meeting my friend on the road at the far end of the woods four hours later. During that time the soreness in my shin grew, aggravated by the walking boots I had on. But still I ignored it. On the Sunday I went into Cesky Krumlov by train, this required walking down the hill to the station and down another even steeper one into Cesky Krumlov. By the time I got to the old town gates I was in agony.

So I was forced to respect my injury. I had been half expecting something like this, over the last six months I have worked too hard and experienced too much stress, As I said to my Czech friend this is my body's way of telling me to put my feet up. It was as if I am being told that it is all very well thinking that working on the house, digging the garden and chopping wood, is relaxation, it is not, it is just another form of work. I was being told that dashing off to Krumlov to the internet cafe to check on whether the world out there wants me was and is folly and that even if it does, now is not the time to respond. Instead I must sit in the sun and read and write. Instead of seeking stimulus, I must let it come to me and be open to the little things that would otherwise pass unnoticed.

And so it was that I was sitting on the old sleepers in the yard, when there was a scuttling at my feet. A small lizard with a skin like jewels appeared and disappeared from under the granite flagstones next to me. He scanned the air, his head moving from side to side, tongue flicking in and out as if tasting my presence. I watched him absorbed in his hide and seek, and saw his sides moving as he breathed. When I was a little girl I had a lizard as a pet – I kept him in an old ceramic sink in the greenhouse. His name was Sidney – I can't remember why, only that it was Sidney – and I had won him as a prize for a school project. Despite my feeding him spiders and other goodies, he didn't last very long. This Czech lizard has more of a chance, with a whole garden full of prey and crevices to hide in.

PS After a week in which I have read three novels and watched four films, improved my suntan and my friend's website, my foot seemed to have recovered. I will try and learn from this lesson in listening to my body – of course I won't but one can always try.