I ate a monster mushroom - but still couldn't pull the Sword from the Stone

I'm on holiday now, pitched at my usual farm near Lyme Regis. A couple of days ago I'd shopped at Waitrose in Sidmouth, and spotted a really big mushroom on sale there. You never get such humungous mushrooms in a standard package: they are only sold loose. I don't often see them when they are this big - no doubt some mushroom-lover gets in before me, nabbing the monster delicacy and diving for the till at once. But I was lucky. 

When I say this was a 'really big mushroom' I don't mean something that would win first prize at a village fair. I'm sure that it wouldn't even get a booby prize. But it was big enough. Here it is next morning, removed from my fridge in the caravan, and about to be sliced up for a cooked breakfast, with two eggs, two rashers of bacon, and two kidneys for company. 

I wondered whether this might be too large and indulgent a breakfast, but I was driving to Taunton later that morning, and it would be good to stoke up before I went. That way I wouldn't be tempted to buy a takeaway pasty or whatever. So I set to with the cooking. I used an ordinary frying pan for the eggs, but everything else went into the wok.

As usual, I messed the eggs up, but the contents of the wok fared better. On the plate, it all looked fine. A big squirt of tomato ketchup added some extra colour, although the eggs were a beautiful yellow.

Delicious!

I used the scenic B3170 for my way into Taunton, and parked at the same multi-storey car park I'd used when last there in 2011, ten years previously. It had been a cold, dull November day back then, and I hadn't been impressed with the town. This time it was sunny, and I thought much better of the place. I wandered about extensively. I'm planning two other 'Taunton' posts. This one will concentrate on my bid to become the Rightful Queen of England. 

I'd found the Museum, housed in the old castle, currently shut because of Covid-19 restrictions, and noticed a fancy modern path that aimed straight towards a small riverside park. 

Somebody was struggling with something in the distance. Curious, I followed the path. 

Ah, a stone - with a sword stuck in it! 

If you remember,  the youthful King Arthur, then but a squire, watched various noblemen try to pull this very sword out of this very stone. The legend was that whoever could draw the sword free was rightfully King of England. Each nobleman considered that he had a good claim to the throne, but despite titanic efforts in every case, none of these gentlemen, now red-faced and humiliated, could do the deed. They moved off, muttering. Young Arthur then decided to give it a go, almost as a prank, and found that when he grasped the hilt, the sword slid out of the stone smoothly and easily. As you can imagine, he popped it back before anybody could see, as a mere squire wasn't supposed to even touch such a thing, let alone succeed in pulling the sword out when men of high birth and great reputation had failed to. But he wasn't fast enough, and word raced around that the Rightful King of England had been found at last. The noblemen returned, incredulous, and demanded that Arthur repeat his feat. Which he did. After that, it's history. Well, folklore anyway.

And now it was my turn. I grasped the hilt and pulled. 

No joy. I grasped the hilt differently, and pulled again. 

It didn't budge. Right, the nuclear option. The Honour of the Melfords was at stake. I grasped the hilt with both hands and concentrated: mind over matter, you know.

Still no movement. How could this be? With a sigh I concluded that whoever was going to be Rightful Queen of England, it wouldn't be me. It's sad, but there you go. 

The moral is, of course, that even eating giant mushrooms for breakfast guarantees nothing. But I cheered up. It was trout for my evening meal, with new potatoes, tomatoes and samphire. 

I may not be able to pull swords from stones, but I know when to pull fish out of the oven!