Parents pull up to the gate, the engine of their car humming for a few moments in the crisp September air. Oliver stands on the faded path between the flowerbeds, his old backpack stamped with a little aeroplane clutched in his hands. Yellow leaves rustle around him, gathering on his boots and slipping under his heels.
Grandfather Arthur steps out onto the porch, straightens his flat cap and smiles, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepening. Oliver feels that something important is about to begin, not quite like the usual outings.
His mother, Elizabeth, leans down to plant a kiss on his crown and rubs his shoulder.
Dont cause mischief out there, alright? And listen to Granddad, she says.
Of course, Oliver replies, a little embarrassed, glancing toward the house windows where his grandmother Margaret briefly appears.
When the car disappears down the lane, the garden falls quiet. Arthur beckons his grandson toward the shed, and together they pick out baskets for the hikeone larger for Arthur, a smaller one for Oliver. Nearby lie an old canvas tent and a pair of rubber boots; Arthur checks that nothing will leak after the nights rain. He inspects Olivers jacket, zips up every fastener and adjusts the hood.
September is mushroom season! Arthur declares confidently, as if unveiling a secret nature calendar. The birch boletes are hiding under the leaves, and the chanterelles love the moss by the pines. The milk caps have started popping up too.
Oliver listens intently; he enjoys the feeling of preparing for something real. The baskets creak on their handles, the boots are a touch too big, but Arthur merely nodswhat matters is keeping the feet dry.
The garden smells of damp earth and the faint remnants of past campfires. Morning mist hangs over the puddles along the fence; when Oliver steps on wet leaves they cling to his soles, leaving prints on the stone steps.
Arthur tells stories of past forays: how once he and Margaret discovered a whole clearing of milk caps beneath an ancient birch, and how its vital to look not only beneath ones feet but all aroundmushrooms sometimes hide right beside the trail.
The road to the woods is short, a country lane winding through a field of wilted grass. Oliver walks beside Arthur, who moves at a relaxed, steady pace, the basket swinging at his hip.
In the forest the scent changesto the freshness of damp wood and the sharp perfume of moss tangled among pine roots. Underfoot the grass gives way gently to fallen leaves; somewhere to the side the soft drip of dew hits the ground.
Look here, thats a birch bolete, Arthur says, bending to point out a palecapped fungus. See the stalk? Its covered in dark scales.
Oliver crouches, brushes the cap with his finger; it feels cool and smooth.
Why is it called that? he asks.
Because it loves to grow by birches, Arthur smiles. Remember the spot.
They twist the mushroom free, Arthur slicing the stalk to show the white interior, spotless.
Further on a tiny yellow chanterelle catches Olivers eye.
Chanterelles always have those wavy edges, Arthur explains. And they smell a bit nutty
Oliver inhales cautiously; the scent indeed hints at walnuts.
What about lookalikes?
False ones are brighter or have no smell at all, Arthur warns. We never pick those.
Their baskets gradually fill: a sturdy birch bolete here, a cluster of milk caps emerging from a spruce moss stump therethin stalks, tiny sticky caps with pale rims.
Arthur shows the difference between true milk caps and fakes:
The fakes are bright yellow or even orange underneath, he points out. The real ones are white or a creamy shade beneath.
Oliver loves finding the fungi himself, calling Arthur over each time. When he makes a mistake, Arthur calmly explains again.
Bright red toadstools dot the traillarge caps speckled with white.
Theyre beautiful, Oliver remarks. Why cant we pick them?
Theyre poisonous, Arthur answers seriously. Only look at them.
He steps around the toadstools carefully. Oliver begins to understand that not everything pretty belongs in the basket.
Sometimes Arthur asks, Do you remember the differences now? If youre unsure, leave it.
Oliver nods, eager to be careful, feeling responsible for his basket and for staying beside his grandfather.
Deeper in the woods, shafts of sunlight pierce the low branches, casting long bars of light on the damp floor. The air cools, Olivers fingers sometimes chill on the baskets handle, yet the thrill of the hunt warms him more than any glove. A squirrel darts past, birds chatter in the canopy, and a distant snap suggests a rabbit or another forager on its own path. The forest feels like a living maze of trunks, moss, rustling leaves, and muted sounds. The ground, carpeted with last years foliage, is soft even where damp patches darken between roots. Arthur shows where to step to keep feet from getting soaked. Oliver follows, scanning every direction, hoping to surprise Grandma Margaret at home with his haul. He feels like an assistant, almost an adult companion, though he still wants to grab Arthurs hand for reassurance when the wind whistles especially loud or the woods grow dim, as if the forest were revealing its secrets only to the two of them.
At one point, between two pines, Oliver spots a cluster of reddish spots on the moss. He steps off the path, sits down to examine, and discovers a whole patch of chanterellesthe very ones Arthur praised earlier. Joy floods him; he begins gathering them one by one, tucking them into his basket, forgetting to look around. When he finally rises, the towering trunks loom in every directionno familiar silhouette, no voice, just the soft rustle of leaves and an occasional crack of a branch off to the side. Oliver freezes, his heart thudding faster than usual. It feels as if hes the first one left alone in the big autumn wood, even if only for a moment. Fear rushes in, but Arthurs words echo: stay put, if you lose me, call out loudlyIll answer. He tries to shout, his voice barely louder than his breathing, then steadier:
Granddad, where are you? Hey, Im here!
A mist hangs between the trunks, making the trees look alike, the sounds muffled. From the left a familiar voice calls back:
Oi! Im here, come towards me, follow my voicejust stay calm!
Oliver breathes deeper, moves toward the call, shouts again, listening for his name. His steps become steadier, the ground beneath his boots feels familiar again, and the fear eases as a figure emerges ahead. Arthur stands beside an ancient oak, smiling warmly, waiting as if nothing had happened. The forest sounds revive, and Olivers pulse settles into a steady rhythm. He realizes he can trust the adults words just as he trusts himself.
Got you! Arthur pats Oliver on the shoulder, the gesture free of reproach, only quiet joy. Oliver looks at his wrinkled face, which feels as familiar as his own bedroom. His heart still beats fast, but his breathing smoothsnow, beside his grandfather, he feels safe again.
Scared, were you? Arthur asks softly, lifting the basket from the ground.
Oliver nodsbriefly, honestly. Arthur crouches to be at eye level.
I once lost my way in these woods when I was a bit older than you, he says. I thought Id been wandering for hours, but it was only ten minutes The key is not to run blindly. Stop, call out, and listen. You did everything right.
Oliver glances down at his muddy, mossstained rubber boots. He feels Arthurs pride. The lingering tremor retreats deep inside, becoming a memory, not a terror.
Shall we head back? Its getting dark. We need to get to the path before night falls, Arthur stands, readjusts his cap, and grabs his basket handle. Oliver steps close behind, each crunch of leaf underfoot now feels familiar. They walk side by side, Oliver content to be part of the shared task, even in the simplest decisions.
At the forests edge the air turns fresh; the evening wind pushes dry leaves along the lane between the trees. Ahead, the roof of their cottage peeks through the thin birch branches. Dark streaks from wet grass cling to the basket handles; their palms tingle from the long walk, yet the joy of returning outshines any hot tea.
The house greets them with soft window light and the smell of fresh baking from the kitchen. Grandma Margaret waits on the porch, a towel draped over her shoulder:
Oh my! Look at you two! Show me what youve found!
She helps Oliver slip off his boots in the hallwayleaves clinging to the solesthen carefully takes the basket from Arthur, placing it beside her own bowl for cleaning mushrooms.
The kitchen radiates warmth from the stove; the window glass fogs in thin vertical ribbons, revealing only vague lantern glows outside and the silhouettes of trees beyond the hedge. Oliver moves to the table, watching Margaret sort the mushroomsbirch boletes here, chanterelles separatewhile Arthur produces his folding knife for the delicate work with the milk caps.
Night deepens outside, but the house feels especially cosy. Oliver recounts his finds, how he called out to his grandfather, and the adults listen without interrupting. He wants to believe he has now become part of this family tradition. A kettle whistles, the air smells of fresh mushrooms and baked scones. Outside, darkness settles, but inside it stays bright, calm, and comfortingjust the way it feels after a small trial that they have passed together.
