17 September a crisp, damp morning on the outskirts of a small village in Kent. The car idled for a while after we pulled up to the gate, its engine humming in the cool September air. I stood on the faded pathway between the flower beds, clutching my battered rucksack emblazoned with a tiny airplane patch. Yellow leaves rustled around my boots and tucked themselves under the heels.
Granddad Arthur stepped onto the porch, tipped his flat cap back and gave me a grin that deepened the laugh lines around his eyes. I felt a familiar thrillit was the sort of feeling that signals something important is about to begin, different from the usual.
Mum, Eleanor, kissed the top of my head and gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze.
Dont dawdle too much, alright? And mind Granddad, she said.
Of course, I replied, a little embarrassed, glancing toward the windows where Grandmum Margaret had just appeared.
When the car disappeared down the lane, the yard fell quiet. Granddad beckoned me toward the shed; together we chose two wicker baskets for the walkone larger for him, a smaller one for me. Beside them lay an old canvas tarp and a pair of rubber boots, which he inspected carefully to make sure nothing would leak after the night rain. He buttoned up my coat, zipped every pocket and adjusted the hood.
September is prime mushroom season, Granddad declared with the certainty of someone opening a secret nature calendar. The birch mushrooms are hiding under the leaves now, and the chanterelles love the moss around the pines. The honey fungi have started to appear, too.
I listened intently; the sense of preparing for something real was exhilarating. The baskets squeaked as we lifted them; the boots were a tad roomy, but Granddad only noddedwhat mattered was keeping my feet dry.
The garden smelled of damp earth and the faint remnants of old campfires. Morning mist hovered over the puddles along the fence; each step on the soggy leaves left a sticky imprint on the concrete steps.
Granddad recounted past forays: once he and Grandmum had stumbled upon a whole patch of honey fungi by an ancient birch, and he reminded me to look not just underfoot but all around, for mushrooms sometimes hide right beside the path.
The walk to the woods was short: a country lane winding through a field of withered grass. I walked beside Granddad; he moved at a relaxed, confident pace, basket tucked against his hip.
In the forest the air changed, fresh with the scent of damp wood and the sharp perfume of moss between the pine roots. The ground beneath my boots gave a soft spring, a mixture of grass and fallen leaves; somewhere off to the side, dew dripped from low branches onto the forest floor.
Look herethats a birch mushroom, Granddad said, crouching to point at a palecapped fungus. Notice the stalkcovered in dark scales.
I knelt, brushed the cap with a fingertip; it was cool and smooth.
Why is it called that?
Because it loves to grow by birches, he replied with a smile. Remember the spot!
We twisted the mushroom free, he sliced the stem to show its white, unspotted interior.
Further on, a tiny yellow chanterelle emerged from the grass.
Chanterelles always have that wavy edge, Granddad explained. And they smell a bit nutty
I inhaled gently; the scent was faintly almond.
What about lookalikes?
The fakes are brighter or lack the smell, he warned. We never pick those.
Our baskets gradually filled: a sturdy birch mushroom here, a cluster of honey fungi tucked into a pine stump therethin stems, tiny sticky caps with pale rims. Granddad taught me how real honey fungi are white or cream underneath, while the fakes turn bright yellow or orange on the bottom.
I loved finding each mushroom myself, calling Granddad over to check my find. When I made a mistake, he calmly reexplained, never with annoyance.
Red flyagarics dotted the traillarge caps speckled with white spots.
Beautiful, arent they? I whispered. Why cant we take them?
Theyre poisonous, Granddad said seriously. Just admire them.
He skirted the red caps, and I realized that not everything pretty belongs in our basket.
He would often pause and ask, Do you recall the differences now? If youre unsure, leave it.
I nodded, eager to be careful, feeling the weight of responsibility for my basket and for staying beside Granddad.
Deeper in the woods the sun filtered through low branches, casting long ribbons of light on the moist earth. It grew cooler; my fingers tingled on the basket handle, yet the excitement kept my gloves warm. A squirrel darted past, birds chattered on the branches, and somewhere ahead a twig snappedperhaps a hare or another forager. The forest felt alive, a labyrinth of trunks, moss, rustling leaves and muffled sounds. The ground stayed soft even where old leaflitter lay thick, and dark patches of damp showed between roots. Granddad showed me the best places to step to keep my feet from getting soaked. I tried to match his rhythm, scanning every direction, hoping to discover new mushroom spots to wow Grandmum later at home. I felt like an assistant, almost an adult companion, though I still wanted to grasp his hand for reassurance when the wind howled or the shadows deepened, as if the woods were sharing their secrets only with us.
One moment, between two pines, I spotted a cluster of bright orange spots in the moss. I edged farther from the path, sat down to examine: a whole bunch of chanterelles, just as Granddad had praised earlier. Joy surged through me; I gathered them one by one, slipping them into my basket, forgetting to look around. When I finally rose, all I saw were towering trunksno familiar silhouette, no voice, just the soft rustle of leaves and an occasional crack of a branch. My heart hammered faster; it felt as if I were truly alone in the autumn woods, even if only for a breath.
Fear rose, but Granddads words echoed: stay put if you lose me, call out loudly and Ill answer. I called, my voice barely louder than a sigh.
Granddad, where are you? Hey, Im here!
A thin veil of mist hung among the trunks, making each tree look the same, sounds muffled. From the left a familiar voice called back:
Oi! Im here, come towards me, follow my voicejust stay calm!
I drew a deeper breath, moved toward the sound, shouted again, listening for a reply. My steps grew steadier, the ground familiar once more, and relief replaced panic when Granddad appeared, leaning against an old oak, smiling warmly, waiting as if nothing had happened. The forest noises revived, and my pulse steadied. I realized I could trust his words just as I trusted myself.
Got you! Granddad patted my shoulder, his touch free of reproach, only quiet joy. I stared at his creased faceit felt as familiar as my own bedroom. My heart still raced, but my breathing settled; beside him I felt safe again.
Did it scare you? he asked softly, lifting his basket from the ground.
I gave a brief, honest nod. He crouched down so we were eyelevel.
I once got lost in these woods when I was a bit older than you, he said. It felt like Id been wandering for a whole day, but it was only ten minutes The key is not to run blindly. Stop, call, and listen. You did everything right.
I glanced at my muddy, mossstained boots, feeling his quiet pride. The lingering unease slipped deep inside, turning into a memory rather than a threat.
Shall we head back? Its getting dark. We need to leave the trail before night falls, Granddad rose, readjusted his cap and grabbed his basket handle. I followed close behind, each crunch of leaf underfoot now felt comforting. Walking side by side, I relished being part of something larger, even in these simple steps.
As we emerged, the evening wind sent dry leaves skittering along the lane; ahead the roof of our cottage peeked through the thin birch branches. Dark streaks of moss clung to the basket handles, my palms chilled from the long walk, yet the warmth of returning home outshone any hot tea.
The house welcomed us with soft window light and the smell of fresh scones from the kitchen. Grandmum Margaret waited on the doorstep, a towel draped over her shoulder.
Oh my! Look at you two, brilliant! Show me what youve gathered! she exclaimed, helping me strip off the boots that were still glued with leaves, then carefully took Granddads basket and set it beside her mushroomcleaning bowl.
Inside, the kitchen glowed with the stoves heat; the window glass fogged in thin streaks, revealing only faint lantern light outside and the silhouettes of trees beyond the hedge. I perched near the table while Grandmum sorted the findsbirch mushrooms here, chanterelles therewhile Granddad produced his folding knife for the delicate work on the honey fungi.
Even as night fell quickly, the house felt especially cosy. I recounted the days discoveries, how I called out for Granddad, and the adults listened intently, not interrupting. I wanted to believe I had become part of this family tradition. A kettle steamed on the hob, filling the room with the aroma of mushrooms and fresh bake. Outside, darkness deepened, but inside it was bright, calm, and goodjust the way it feels after a small trial that youve overcome together.
