Granddad and the Family Trail
Dad and Mum pulled up to the gate and let the engine of their old Ford hum for a few minutes in the crisp September air. Tommy stood on the faded path between the flowerbeds, clutching his battered rucksack with a little airplane patch sewn onto it. Yellow leaves rustled around his boots, sticking to the laces and getting caught under his shoes.
Granddad stepped onto the porch, tipped his flat cap back and flashed a grin that deepened the laugh lines around his eyes. Tommy felt the familiar tingle that something important was about to start not quite the same old routine.
Mum planted a kiss on his forehead and gave his shoulder a gentle pat.
Dont get up to mischief, alright? And mind Granddad, she said.
Will do, Tommy answered, glancing shyly toward the windows, where Grandmum could already be seen peeking out.
When the car disappeared down the lane, the yard fell quiet. Granddad beckoned his grandson over to the garden shed. Together they chose two wicker baskets a bigger one for Granddad, a smaller one for Tommy. Nearby lay an old rubber raincoat and a pair of wellworn Wellington boots; Granddad made sure nothing would leak after the nights drizzle. He inspected Tommys jacket, zipped up all the fastenings and adjusted the hood.
September is prime mushroompicking season! Granddad declared, as if unveiling a secret nature calendar. The birch mushrooms are hiding under the leaf litter, the chanterelles love the moss at the foot of the pines, and the honey fungus has started to turn up as well.
Tommy listened intently; the feeling of gearing up for something proper appealed to him. The baskets squeaked as they were lifted; his boots were a tad big, but Granddad only nodded the most important thing was keeping the feet dry.
The garden smelled of damp earth and the lingering whiff of old campfires. A thin mist hovered over the puddles beside the fence; when Tommy stepped on the wet leaves they stuck to his soles and left dark marks on the stone steps.
Granddad recounted past forays: how he and Grandmum once uncovered a whole patch of honey fungus beneath an ancient birch, and how you need to watch not only beneath your feet but all around mushrooms love to play hideandseek right beside the trail.
The walk to the woods was a short hop down the lane, across a field of strawcoloured grass. Tommy kept close to Granddad, who moved at a leisurely, confident pace, the basket swinging at his side.
Inside the forest the scent shifted to fresh sap and the sharp tang of pine moss. The ground was a soft carpet of grass mixed with fallen leaves; somewhere off to the side a drizzle of dew fell from the branches.
Look there a birch mushroom, Granddad said, crouching to point out a palecapped specimen. See the stem? Its covered in little dark scales.
Tommy leaned in, brushed the cap with a fingertip cool and smooth.
Whys it called that?
Because it loves the company of birches, Granddad smiled. Remember the spot.
They twisted the mushroom free and sliced the stem open the inside was pure white, spotless.
Further on, a tiny yellow chanterelle popped up among the grass.
Chanterelles always have those wavy edges, Granddad taught. And theyve got a distinct, almost nutty smell.
Tommy sniffed cautiously it did indeed smell a bit like toasted hazelnuts.
What if one looks the same but isnt?
False ones are brighter or smellwell, nothing at all, Granddad warned. We never pick them.
Soon the baskets were filling up: a sturdy birch mushroom here, a cluster of honey fungus on a stump there thin stems, sticky little caps with a pale rim.
Granddad explained how to tell genuine honey fungus from the impostors: The fakes are bright yellow or orange underneath, the real ones are white or creamy.
Tommy loved finding each find himself, shouting Look, Granddad! each time. If he got it wrong, Granddad calmly showed the difference again.
Red flyagarics dotted the path large caps speckled with white that looked like sugar dust.
Those are gorgeous, Tommy said. Why cant we take them?
Theyre poisonous, Granddad answered solemnly. Best to just admire them.
He steered clear of the deadly reds, and Tommy began to understand that not everything pretty belongs in a basket.
Every now and then Granddad would ask, Remember the differences? If youre unsure, leave it.
Tommy nodded, keen to be careful, feeling a budding sense of responsibility for his own basket and for staying on Granddads trail.
Deeper in the woods, shafts of lateafternoon sun pierced the low branches, painting long bars of light across the damp earth. It grew cooler; Tommys fingers tingled around the basket handle, but the thrill of the hunt kept him warm. A squirrel darted past, birds chattered overhead, and somewhere ahead a twig snapped perhaps a rabbit or another forager on his own errand. The forest felt like a living maze of trunks, moss, rustling leaves and muted sounds. The ground was soft even where old leafcarpets covered the soil, and dark damp patches glistened between roots. Granddad showed the safest footing, and Tommy tried to mirror each step, eyes sweeping every side for the next surprise, hoping to bring home a prize that would impress Grandmum.
One moment, between two pines, Tommy spotted a splash of orange among the moss. He edged away from the track, sat down and peered closer it turned out to be a whole bunch of chanterelles, just the kind Granddad had praised earlier. Joy surged through him; he started filling his basket, forgetting to look around. When he finally stood, the world around him was just trunks and shadow, no familiar faces, no voices, only the soft rustle of leaves and the occasional crack of a branch. His heart thumped faster than usual. It was the first time hed been truly alone in the autumn woods, even if only for a minute.
A quick rush of fear rose, but Granddads words echoed: stay put if you lose me, call out loud and Ill answer. Tommys voice was barely louder than his breath at first, then a little firmer:
Granddad, where are you? Hey, Im here!
A muffled fog clung between the trees, making them all look alike, the sounds softer, more distant. From the left came Granddads familiar, slightly gravelly tone:
Oi, oi! Im here, come toward my voice just keep calm!
Tommy breathed deeper, stepped toward the sound, calling again, listening for the reply. His steps grew steadier, the ground underfoot felt familiar again, and the fear melted as Granddads figure emerged, leaning against an ancient oak, smiling warmly. The forests chorus resumed, and Tommys pulse steadied. He realised he could trust the adults words just as he trusted his own instincts.
Well, look who found his way back! Granddad gave Tommy a friendly pat on the shoulder, the gesture free of blame, just plain relief. Tommy stared at his weatherworn face, as familiar as his own bedroom wall. His heart still raced, but his breathing evened with Granddad beside him, safety felt as natural as a cup of tea on a rainy day.
Scared you, did you? Granddad asked softly, lifting his basket.
Tommy gave a short, honest nod. Granddad crouched to be eyelevel with him.
I once got lost in these woods when I was a lad a bit older than you. I thought Id been wandering for hours, but it was only ten minutes. The trick is not to run blind stop, call, and listen. You did exactly right.
Tommy glanced down at his mudsplattered Wellington boots, proud of how theyd held up. The lingering nerves drifted deep into a memory, no longer a fright.
Shall we head back? Its getting close to dusk, and we need to make it out before dark, Granddad said, straightening his cap and gripping his basket. Tommy fell into step, almost right beside him. Each crunch of leaf underfoot now felt like an old friends greeting.
At the edge of the woods the evening wind chased dry leaves along the lane; ahead a thatched cottage roof peeked through the birch branches. Dark streaks of wet grass clung to the basket handles, and Tommys palms were a little chilly after the long walk, yet the joy of returning warmed him more than any hot cup of tea could.
The house welcomed them with soft window light and the scent of fresh baking. Grandmum waited on the porch, a towel draped over her shoulder.
Oh, look at you two! Come on, show us the haul! she called. She helped Tommy pull off his boots the soles were plastered with leaves and took the baskets from Granddad, setting one beside her own wooden bowl for cleaning the mushrooms.
Inside, the kitchen glowed from the stove; the window glass misted with tiny rivulets, revealing only the faint glow of a garden lantern and the silhouettes of hedges beyond. Tommy perched near the table while Grandmum skilfully sorted the find: birch mushrooms here, chanterelles there. Granddad produced his trusty pocket knife for the delicate honey fungus work.
Even as night fell swiftly outside, the house felt snug and safe. Tommy recounted his discoveries, the moment he called out in the woods, and the adults listened intently, nodding with that knowing smile families share after a small adventure. The kettle whistled, filling the room with the perfume of boiled water, mushrooms and freshly baked scones. Outside, darkness deepened, but inside it was bright, calm, and comforting exactly the feeling that follows a little test conquered together.
