The parents pulled up to the gate, the engine of their old Ford humming for a few moments in the crisp September air. Harry stood on the faded pathway between the flowerbeds, clutching his battered rucksack with a little airplane patch on the side. Yellow leaves rustled around him, slipping into his shoes and snagging under his boots.
Grandpa Arthur stepped onto the porch, tipped his flat cap and smiled, the crowsfeet around his eyes deepening instantly. Harry felt that something important was about to begin, not quite the usual sort of thing.
Mother Emma planted a kiss on his crown and brushed his shoulder.
Dont go off doing anything foolish, alright? And mind Granddad, she said.
Sure thing, Harry replied, glancing shyly at the windows where Grandma Joan had just flickered into view.
When the car disappeared down the lane, the courtyard fell quiet. Arthur beckoned his grandson toward the garden shed, and together they chose baskets for the expeditionone a bit larger for the old man, a smaller one for Harry. Nearby lay a battered tentcoat and a pair of wellworn rubber boots; Arthur made sure nothing was damp after last nights drizzle. He inspected Harrys jacket, zipped up every seam and adjusted the hood.
September is prime mushroom season! Arthur declared, as if unveiling a secret nature calendar. The birchheads are hiding under the leaves, the chanterelles love the moss around the firs, and the honeyfungi have already started to pop up.
Harry listened intently; he liked the feeling of gearing up for something real. The baskets creaked as they were lifted; the boots were a shade too big, but Arthur merely noddedwhat mattered was keeping the feet dry.
The yard smelled of damp earth and the lingering hint of last nights campfire. A thin mist rose over the puddles by the fence; when Harry stepped on the soggy leaves they stuck to his soles, leaving dark prints on the stone steps.
Grandpa told stories of past forays: a time he and Joan had stumbled upon a whole clearing of honeyfungi near an ancient ash, and how its vital to watch not just the ground but the whole surroundingsmushrooms can be right beside the path.
The road to the woods was a short drive down a country lane flanked by fields of wilted grass. Harry walked beside his grandfather; Arthur moved at a leisurely, confident pace, cradling his basket against his hip.
In the forest the smell changedto fresh, damp wood and the sharp scent of moss between pine roots. The ground gave a soft spring beneath a carpet of fallen leaves, and somewhere off to the side the droplets from the dewladen branches fell onto the forest floor.
Look here, thats a birchhead, Arthur said, bending to point at a palecapped mushroom. See the stem? Its covered in tiny dark scales.
Harry crouched, ran a finger over the capit was cool and smooth.
Whys it called that? he asked.
Because it loves to grow next to birches, Arthur smiled. Remember the spot!
They twisted the mushroom free, sliced the stem to reveal its white, spotless interior.
Further on a small yellow chanterelle popped up among the grass.
Chanterelles always have that wavy edge, Arthur explained. And they smell a bit like toasted nuts.
Harry sniffed gentlyindeed, a nutty perfume wafted up.
What about the lookalikes?
The fakes are brighter, sometimes orange, and they lack the scent, the old man warned. We never pick those.
Their baskets slowly filled: a sturdy birchhead here, a cluster of honeyfungi on a fallen log therethin stems, tiny sticky caps with a pale rim. Arthur showed the difference between true honeyfungi and impostors.
The fakes are bright yellow or orange underneath, he said, holding one up. The real ones are white or a creamy shade below.
Harry loved finding mushrooms himself, calling Granddad over each time. When he made a mistake, Arthur calmly explained the distinction again.
Bright red toadstools with snowwhite spots dotted the trail.
Beautiful, arent they? Harry muttered. Why cant we pick them?
Theyre poisonous, Arthur replied seriously. Only for admiring.
He sidestepped the toadstools. Harry understood that not every pretty thing belongs in the basket.
Sometimes Arthur would ask, Do you remember the differences now? If youre unsure, leave it be! Harry nodded, eager to be careful, feeling a budding responsibility for his own basket and for staying close to his grandfather.
Deeper in the woods, shafts of sunlight pierced the low branches, casting long bars of light on the damp earth. It was cooler there, Harrys fingers sometimes tingled on the basket handle, yet the thrill of the hunt kept him warmer than any gloves could. A squirrel darted past, birds chattered overhead, and occasionally a twig snappedperhaps a hare or another forager on a solitary stroll. The forest felt alive, a maze of trunks, moss, rustling leaves and muted sounds. The ground was soft even where a carpet of last years foliage covered it, and dark damp patches glimmered between roots. Arthur showed the best places to step to keep his feet from soaking. Harry tried to follow his lead, scanning every direction for new mushroom hotspots to impress Grandma later with his haul. He felt like a grownup helper, though sometimes he still wanted to grasp his grandpas hand for reassurance when the wind howled or the shadows grew thick, as if the woods were sharing their secrets just with the two of them.
One time, between two firs, Harry spotted a splash of orange speckles in the moss. He edged a little farther from the path, sat down, and examined the findit was a whole bunch of chanterelles, just like the ones Arthur had praised earlier. Joy flooded him; he began gathering them one after another, slipping them carefully into his basket, forgetting entirely to look around. When he finally stood, his eyes met only the towering trunksno familiar silhouette, no voice, no footsteps, just the soft rustle of leaves and the occasional crack of a twig to his left. Harry froze, his heart thudding faster than usual. It seemed he was truly alone in the big autumn wood, even if only for a moment. Fear rushed in, but alongside it echoed Arthurs words: stay put if you lose me, shout out loud and Ill answer. He tried to call, his voice barely louder than his breathing. Then, a bit more boldly:
Grandpa, where are you? Hey, Im here!
A mist hung between the trees, making each trunk look the same, the sounds muffled. From somewhere left, a familiar voice crackled:
Oi! Im here, come find me, just follow my voicestay calm!
Harry inhaled deeply, walked toward the call, called again, listening for a reply. His steps steadied, the ground felt familiar again, and the fear gave way to relief as a figure emerged ahead. Arthur stood a short distance away, propped against an old oak, smiling kindly, waiting as if nothing had happened. The forest sounds returned, his heart settled into a steady rhythm. Harry realized he could trust an adults words just as he trusted himself.
Gotcha! Arthur patted Harry on the shoulder, his touch carrying no blame, just quiet joy. Harry stared at the wrinkled face, which felt as familiar as his own bedroom. His pulse still raced, but his breathing evenednext to his granddad, he felt safe again.
Scared you, did I? Arthur asked softly, lifting his basket from the ground.
Harry gave a brief, honest nod. Arthur crouched to meet his eye level.
I once got lost in these woods when I was a lad a bit older than you, he said. I thought Id been wandering for hours, but it was only ten minutes The trick is not to run blind. Stop, call out, and listen. You did it right.
Harry looked down at his muddy, mossstained boots. He felt Arthurs pride. The lingering worry sank deep, now just a memory.
Shall we head back? Its getting dusk. We should be out before dark, Arthur said, adjusting his cap and grabbing his basket again. Harry fell into step beside him, each crunch of leaf underfoot feeling familiar. They walked together, his small sense of purpose swelling with each step.
At the forests edge the evening wind chased dry leaves along the path; ahead, the roof of a cottage peeked through the thin birch canopy. The basket handles bore dark streaks of wet grass; their palms tingled after the long walk, yet the joy of returning warmed them more than any cup of tea could.
The house welcomed them with soft lamplight and the smell of fresh baking from the kitchen. Grandma Joan waited on the doorstep, a towel draped over her shoulder.
Cor, look at you two! Show me what youve brought! she exclaimed, helping them slip off their bootsleaves clinging to the solesas she gently took Arthurs basket and set it by her own bowl for cleaning the fungi.
The kitchen glowed with the stoves heat; the window glass fogged in narrow strips, revealing only vague lantern glows outside and the silhouettes of trees beyond the hedge. Harry perched near the table while Joan skillfully sorted the mushroomsbirchheads here, chanterelles therewhile Arthur produced his folding knife for the delicate work on the honeyfungi.
Even as night fell quickly outside, the house felt especially cosy. Harry listened to the adults recount the days walk, then narrated his finds and how he called out for Granddad. They listened attentively, not interrupting, and Harry felt proud to be part of this family tradition. A steaming kettle hissed, the air smelled of mushrooms and pastry, and while the world outside darkened, the home stayed bright, peaceful and warmjust the way things feel after a little adventure conquered together.
