The parents halted at the garden gate, the engine of their car humming a low note in the cool September air. Charlie stood on the faded path between the flower beds, clutching his battered knapsack stamped with a tiny aeroplane. Yellow leaves rustled around him, slipping into his boots and catching on the heels.
Grandpa George stepped onto the porch, tipped his flat cap and smiled, the crinkles around his eyes deepening at once. Charlie felt the hush of something important beginning, unlike any ordinary day.
His mother pressed a kiss to his crown and gave his shoulder a gentle pat.
Dont go offpiste, alright? And listen to your granddad, she said.
Of course, Charlie answered, glancing shyly at the windows where Nana Margaret had just flickered past.
When the car disappeared down the lane, the courtyard fell silent. Grandpa beckoned his grandson toward the leanto: together they chose two wicker baskets for the walkone larger for the old man, a smaller one for Charlie. By them lay a weathered canvas tarp and a pair of rubber boots; grandpa inspected everything to be sure no water would leak after night rain. He buttoned Charlies jacket, zipped every flap and adjusted the hood.
September is the prime mushroom month, Grandpa declared with the certainty of someone opening a secret nature calendar. The birchcaps are hiding beneath the leaves now, and the chanterelles love the moss by the firs. The honeyfungi are out too.
Charlie listened, fascinated by the feeling of preparing for something real. The baskets creaked on their handles; the boots were a touch too big, but Grandpa only noddedwhat mattered was keeping the feet dry.
The yard smelled of damp earth and the lingering smoke of past campfires. Morning mist clung to the puddles along the fence; each step on the wet leaves left a sticky imprint on the concrete steps.
Grandpa recounted old forays: the time he and Nana found an entire carpet of honeyfungi beneath a twisted birch, and how important it is to watch not just underfoot but all around, for mushrooms sometimes lurk right beside the trail.
The road to the woods was short: a lane winding through a field of strawcoloured grass. Charlie walked beside Grandpa, who moved at an unhurried yet steady pace, his basket tucked against his hip.
The forest breathed a different scentfresh sap and sharp pine moss. Underfoot, the grass sprang softly, interlaced with fallen leaves; somewhere to the side, dew dripped from twig to earth.
Look here, Grandpa said, stooping to point at a palecapped birchcap. See the stem? Dark scales all over it
Charlie knelt, brushed the cap with a fingertipcool and smooth.
Why is it called that? he asked.
Because it loves birch trees, Grandpa replied with a grin. Remember the spot!
They twisted the mushroom free, sliced the stem to reveal its spotless white interior.
Further on, a tiny yellow chanterelle peeped out from the grass.
Chanterelles always have that wavy edge, Grandpa explained. And they smell like nuts.
Charlie inhaled cautiously; the scent was indeed nutty.
What about lookalikes? he wondered.
Fakes are brighter, sometimes without any scent, Grandpa warned. We never pick those.
Soon the baskets swelled: a sturdy birchcap here, a clutch of honeyfungi on a fallen log thereslender stems, tiny sticky caps with pale rims. Grandpa taught the differences between true honeyfungi and impostors.
Fakes are vivid yellow or orange underneath, he showed. Real ones are white or creamcoloured at the base.
Charlie loved finding each mushroom himself, calling Grandpa over to inspect each find; when he erred, Grandpa calmly explained again.
Bright scarlet flyagarics dotted the traillarge caps speckled with snowwhite dots.
Pretty, arent they? Charlie said. Why cant we take them?
Theyre poisonous, Grandpa answered seriously. Just look, dont touch.
He sidestepped the red giants. Charlie understood that not all beauty belongs in a basket.
Occasionally Grandpa asked, Do you remember the differences now? If youre unsure, leave it.
Charlie nodded, feeling the weight of responsibility for his own basket and for walking beside his grandfather.
Deeper in the woods, shafts of lowhanging sunlight cut long stripes across the damp ground. The air grew cooler; Charlies fingers tingled on the basket handle. The thrill of the hunt warmed him more than any gloves. A squirrel darted past, birds chattered up the branches, and somewhere ahead a twig snappedperhaps a hare or another forager on its own route. The forest felt alive, a tangled maze of trunks, moss, rustling leaves and hushed sounds. Beneath the soft carpet of last years foliage, dark wet patches glimmered between roots. Grandpa showed where to step to keep the feet dry. Charlie tried to match his pace, scanning all sides, hunting for new mushroom patches to surprise Nana later at home. He felt like a helper, almost an adult companion, though he still wanted to clutch Grandpas hand for reassurance when the wind howled or the woods dimmed, as if the forest were sharing its secrets only with the two of them.
Between two pines Charlie spotted a cluster of reddish spots among the moss. He moved a little farther from the trail, sat down to study them: a whole bunch of chanterelles, just like the ones Grandpa had praised earlier. Joy surged through him; he gathered them one by one, filling his basket, forgetting to glance sideways. When he rose, his gaze met only towering trunksno familiar silhouette, no voice, no footfall, just the muted rustle of leaves and an occasional crack of a branch. Charlie froze; his heart thudded faster than usual. It seemed he was truly alone in the great autumn wood, even if only for a moment. Fear rose, but Grandpas words echoed: stay put if you lose me, shout loudlyhell answer. He called out in a thin whisper, barely louder than his breath, then with more resolve:
Grandpa, where are you? Hey, Im here!
A veil of mist hung between the trees, making each trunk blend into the next, the sounds softened. From the left a familiar voice drifted:
Oioi! Im here, come towards me, follow my voicebut stay calm!
Charlie drew a deeper breath, stepped toward the call, called again, listening to be heard. His steps steadied, the ground felt familiar again, and fear gave way to relief as a figure emerged ahead. Grandpa leaned against an ancient oak, smiling warmly, waiting as if nothing had happened. The forest sounds revived, his heartbeat settled into a quiet rhythm. Charlie realised he could trust the adults words as he trusted himself.
Well, there you are! Grandpa patted Charlies shoulder, a gesture free of reproach, only calm joy. Charlie stared at the crinkled face, as familiar as his own bedroom. His pulse still quickened, but his breathing evenedby Grandpas side he felt safe again.
Scared? Grandpa asked softly, lifting his basket from the earth.
Charlie gave a brief, honest nod. Grandpa crouched to meet his eye level.
I once lost my way in these woods when I was a bit older than you, he said. It felt like a whole day of searching, but it was only ten minutes The trick is not to run blindly. Stop, call out, and listen. You did it right.
Charlie looked down at his mudsplattered, mossstained boots. He sensed Grandpas pride. The lingering unease slipped deep inside, turning into a memory rather than terror.
Shall we head back? Dusk is falling. We need to be out before dark, Grandpa rose, straightened his cap and grasped his basket again. Charlie fell into step beside him, almost touching. Every crack of leaf underfoot now felt like a familiar mantra. They walked together; Charlie liked feeling part of a shared purpose even in the simplest decisions.
At the forests edge the evening wind chased dry leaves along the lane; ahead, a cottage roof peeked through the thin branches of hawthorn. Dark streaks from wet grass clung to the basket handles; their palms tingled from the long walk, yet the joy of returning warmed them more than any hot tea.
The house welcomed them with soft window light and the scent of fresh baking. Nana Margaret waited on the porch, a towel draped over her shoulder.
Goodness, youve both been out! Show me what youve got! she called.
She helped Charlie out of his boots, the soles still clinging to leaves, and took Grandpas basket, setting it beside her own bowl for cleaning mushrooms.
Inside, the kitchen glowed from the stove; the window pane fogged in narrow streaks, revealing only vague lantern lights in the garden and silhouettes of trees beyond the fence. Charlie perched near the table while Nana deftly sorted the findsbirchcaps here, chanterelles thereGrandpa produced his folding knife for the meticulous work on the honeyfungi.
Even as night fell fast outside, the house felt especially cosy. Charlie listened to the adults recount the day, then told his own tale of the finds and the moment he called out in the woods. They all listened attentively, and Charlie felt he had truly become part of the family tradition. A kettle of tea steamed on the table, the air heavy with mushroom aroma and fresh pastries. Outside darkness deepened, but inside it was bright, calm and comfortablejust as it is after a small trial conquered together.
