I once heard a countrywoman, very learned in country 
lore, confess with a sort of awe, or was it boast ? that 
she herself was a Boletus eater. She sought the ugly 
things in Devon woods and had them cooked ; but was 
forced to eat alone ; no one else had the courage in spite 
of the seductive odour. So there are fairy-ring eaters
and puff-ball eaters and beef-steak mushroom eaters who
wonder at the abstinence of an unbelieving world. In
almost every country place within Britain the mushroom
harvest is the most highly appreciated ; but the zeal is
narrow. Nothing is picked but the field agaric. Even
the morel is passed by doubtless because it is rare and
curiously fickle in its appearance. It will suddenly sprout
from a gravel path or the shade of a gooseberry bush or in
a damp hollow by the wood ; but be seen no more for
years. The field agaric is much more regular. I know a
cricket-ground where it appears about this date every
year ; and one may return to a place after the absence of
a generation and find these mushrooms growing exactly
where they grew in our youth. They even taste as good
or nearly as good.
Village England by Sir William Beach Thomas