Our Lithuanian next door neighbours are visiting. Egle tells me they have spent the summer in Lithuania foraging for and eating wild mushrooms.

The very thought of eating wild mushrooms scares the living daylights out of me. Julian used to forage for mushrooms. I ate them once or twice, but never enjoyed them, too scared that I was going to die. I used to tell him, ‘If you’re still alive in 24 hours, I’ll try them then.’ The only wild mushrooms I’ve ever eaten with confidence are the giant puffball and the chicken of the wood, because no other species can be mistaken for them.

But while I’m scared, I’m also envious that my friends have the foraging skills to distinguish edible mushrooms from poisonous ones.

This evening, we went walking along the canal in Edenderry with Alisa, who’s been foraging for mushrooms with her parents in Lithuania. As soon as we set out on our walk, my daughters descended on the hedge, stuffing blackberries in their mouths as fast as they could pluck them from the brambles.

‘What are you doing?’ Alisa asked, concerned. ‘How do you know they’re not poisonous?’

I had to laugh. There I was, worrying about the safety of her family’s foraging in her country and here she is, worrying about my family’s foraging in our country. Maybe we all know what we’re doing after all, foraging foods we’ve known since childhood. Before long. Alisa was alongside my girls, searching for the juiciest blackberries she could find.