The autumn has given me a perfect lesson in what wonders lie around us but often go completely unnoticed. This story involves the field opposite our house, visible at all times from my office and familiar to me for 50 years. Last month, I presumed I was being observant already: to spot white orbs appearing at intervals in its expanse, and to recognise these as horse mushrooms (which were retrieved as glorious additions to our seasonal diet). After a week away, however, I looked out and was astonished to see thousands of pale specks, as if some bizarre terrestrial heat rash had afflicted the turf. Every dot turned out to be the fruiting body of a waxcap, a fungal group of 50-plus species in Britain that were previously neglected but have now become a focus of national surveys. A reason for this interest is simple. They’re among the most entrancing of all autumnal wildlife, and I’m finding it hard to decide which is the more beautiful here – the oxygenated-blood colour of crimson waxcaps or the ghostly purity of hue in meadow waxcap. Another reason for our waxcap awakening is recognition that Britain is important for them. There are fields, even domestic lawns, with 30-40 species. My site is more modest, despite the sheer numbers, with fewer than 10 species, including golden, scarlet, meadow, parrot, honey, blackening and snowy waxcaps. Yet it’s typical in this sense. Waxcaps flourish best in low-nutrient conditions, even in places otherwise poor for floral diversity. This spot looks little more than a dismally over-grazed, seemingly barren blend of grass and mosses. There is a fourth dimension to the wonder of waxcaps, which is evident across many fungi: their perennial gift for rising unexpectedly from the underworld. Yet these visible parts are akin to flowers and are only the reproductive components. The full thing (the mycelium) dwells underground. While their fruiting bodies may run in long linear patterns, including the famous fairy rings, they belong to one individual. Growing at rates of 5cm-50cm a year, a waxcap’s mycelium can be scores of metres around and many decades, even hundreds of years old.