The Smiths pulled up to the gate, the engine of their little Bedford humming for a while in the crisp September air. Edward stood on the faded path between the flower beds, clutching his battered knapsack with a stitched little aeroplane on the front. Yellow leaves rustled around him, slipping into his boots and catching on the hems of his trousers.
Grandfather Arthur stepped onto the porch, tipped his flat cap back and flashed a smile that deepened the lines around his eyes. Edward felt an odd stirring, as if something important was about to begin, not quite like the ordinary evenings he knew.
His mother, Eleanor, pressed a kiss to his forehead and gave his shoulder a gentle pat.
Dont go off tripping about, alright? And mind your manners with Granddad, she said.
Of course, Edward replied, glancing shyly at the windows where his grandmother Agnes had just appeared for a moment.
When the parents drove away, the courtyard fell quiet. Arthur beckoned his grandson toward the garden shed, and together they chose baskets for the walkone a good size for Arthur, a smaller one for Edward. Beside them lay an old canvas tent and a pair of rubber wellies; Arthur checked each for leaks after the nights rain. He inspected Edwards coat, zipping up every fastener and adjusting the hood.
September is the prime mushroom season, Arthur declared with the certainty of someone reading a secret nature calendar. The birch-loving buttercups are tucked under the leaves, the chanterelles love the moss by the pine saplings, and the honey mushrooms have already started peeking out.
Edward listened intently; the feeling of preparing for something real thrilled him. The baskets creaked under the weight of their handles, the boots were a touch large, but Arthur only noddedwhat mattered was keeping the feet dry.
The yard smelled of damp earth and the lingering smoke of past campfires. Morning mist hovered over the puddles by the fence; when Edward stepped on the wet leaves they clung to his soles and left dark tracks on the stone steps.
Arthur spoke of earlier outings: the time he and Agnes had stumbled upon a whole meadow of honey mushrooms beneath an ancient oak, and how it was vital to watch not just the ground but the whole surroundings, for mushrooms sometimes hide right beside the trail.
The road to the woods was short, a country lane winding through a field of withered grass. Edward walked beside his grandfather, who moved at a leisurely, confident pace, the basket swinging by his side.
In the forest the scent changedto the fresh sharpness of wet timber and the tang of moss among the fir roots. The ground gave a soft spring as grass and fallen leaves mixed beneath the boots; somewhere to the side a spray of dew fell from a branch onto the earth.
Look here, thats a birch bolete, Arthur said, bending to point out a lightcapped fungus. See the stem? Its covered in dark scales
Edward crouched, brushed the cap with his fingerit was cool and smooth.
Whys it called that? he asked.
Because it loves to grow at the foot of birches, Arthur replied with a grin. Remember the spot.
They gently twisted the mushroom free, and Arthur sliced the stem to show its white, unspotted interior.
Further on a small yellow chanterelle peeped through the grass.
The edges of chanterelles are always wavy, Arthur explained. And they have that distinctive nutty aroma
Edward inhaled cautiously, catching the scent of roasted hazelnuts.
What if it looks alike? he wondered.
There are lookalikes that are brighter or scentless, Arthur warned. We never take those.
Soon the baskets were filling: a sturdy birch bolete, a cluster of honey mushrooms perched on a stubby log, their thin stems and tiny sticky caps edged in pale. Arthur taught Edward how to tell real honey mushrooms from the impostorsreal ones are white or creamy underneath, while the fakes are bright yellow or orange on the bottom.
Edward loved finding the mushrooms himself, calling his grandfather over each time. When he missed, Arthur patiently explained again, never with impatience.
Bright red fly agarics dotted the trail, their caps speckled with white.
Theyre beautiful, Edward mused. Why cant we pick them?
Because theyre poisonous, Arthur said gravely. We can only admire them.
He sidestepped the toxic caps, and Edward began to understand that not everything that looks appealing belongs in the basket.
Sometimes Arthur would ask, Remember the differences now? If youre unsure, leave it.
Edward nodded, keen to be careful, feeling the weight of responsibility for his own basket and for staying close to his grandfather.
Deeper in the woods the sun filtered through low branches, casting long ribbons of light across the damp earth. It grew cooler, Edwards fingers sometimes tingling on the basket handle, but the excitement of the hunt kept him warmer than any glove. A squirrel darted past, birds chattered on the high limbs, and somewhere ahead a twig snappedperhaps a rabbit, perhaps another forager. The forest felt like a living maze of trunks, moss, rustling leaves and muted sounds. Even where the ground was carpeted in last years foliage, the soil was soft, and dark patches of moisture glimmered between the roots. Arthur showed where to step to keep his feet from soaking, and Edward followed closely, eyes scanning every corner for new spots that might impress Grandma later at home. He felt like a junior companion, almost an adult, yet still reaching for Arthurs hand when the wind howled or the shadows deepened, as if the woods were revealing their secrets only to the two of them.
One day, between two towering pines, Edward spotted a splash of orange among the moss. He moved a little farther off the path, knelt, and examineda whole patch of chanterelles, the very ones Arthur had praised. Joy surged through him; he gathered them one by one, slipping them into his basket, so absorbed that he forgot to look around. When he finally rose, the surrounding trunks rose like silent sentinelsno familiar silhouette, no voice, no footfall, only the soft rustle of leaves and an occasional crack of a branch. Edward froze, his heart thudding faster than usual. For the first time he was alone in the great autumn wood, even if only for a moment. Fear rose, but with it came Arthurs words: stay where you are if you lose me, shout loudlyIll hear you. He called out, his voice initially a whisper barely louder than his breathing. Then, more resolutely:
Granddad, where are you? Hey, Im here!
A mist hung between the trunks, making each tree blend into the next, the sounds muffled. From the left a familiar voice called back:
Oi! Im here, come towards me, keep your cool!
Edward drew a deep breath, moved toward the sound, calling again, listening for his response. His steps steadied, the earth beneath his boots felt familiar once more, and the fear gave way to relief when a figure appeared ahead. Arthur stood a short distance away, propped against an old oak, smiling kindly, waiting as if nothing had happened. The forest sounds returned to their usual chorus, and Edwards pulse steadied. He realized he could trust the adults guidance just as he trusted himself.
Ah, there you are! Arthur patted Edwards shoulder, the gesture free of reproach, only quiet joy. Edward looked at the wrinkled face, as familiar as his own bedroom wall. His heart still raced, but his breathing evenedby Arthurs side he felt safe again.
Scared you? Arthur asked softly, lifting his basket from the ground.
Edward nodded, briefly but honestly. Arthur crouched to be eyelevel with him.
I once lost my way in these woods when I was a lad a bit older than you, he said. It felt like Id been wandering for a whole day, but it was only ten minutes. The trick is not to sprint blind; stop, call, and listen. You did exactly right.
Edward stared at his muddy wellies, speckled with earth and bits of moss, feeling the pride in his grandfathers eyes. The lingering unease slipped deep inside, becoming a memory rather than a terror.
Shall we head back? Its getting dusk. We need to be out before dark, Arthur rose, straightened his cap, and took his baskets handle again. Edward fell into step beside him, each crunch of leaf underfoot now feeling like a familiar rhythm. They walked side by side, the simple act of moving together comforting.
At the forests edge the evening wind drove dry leaves along the lane, and in the distance the roof of the cottage peeked through the thin row of hawthorn. Dark streaks from the wet grass clung to the basket handles, and their hands tingled after the long walk, yet the pleasure of returning warmed them more than any cup of tea could.
The house greeted them with soft lamplight and the smell of fresh scones drifting from the kitchen. Grandma Agnes waited on the porch, a towel draped over her shoulder.
Goodness, you two! Show me what youve brought back! she exclaimed, helping them out of their boots, the soles still clinging to leaf litter, and gently taking Arthurs basket to set it beside her own bowl for cleaning.
Inside, the stove gave off a comforting heat, the kitchen window steamed in thin ribbons, revealing only faint lantern glows outside and the silhouettes of hedgerows. Edward perched near the table while Agnes sorted the mushroomsbirch boletes here, chanterelles therewhile Arthur produced his folding knife for the delicate work on the honey mushrooms.
Even as night fell fast beyond the panes, the house felt snug. Edward listened to the adults recount the days adventure, adding his own snippets about calling out to his grandfather. They all paid close attention, and Edward felt he had truly become part of the familys mushroomforaging tradition. A kettle whistled, the air was scented with freshly cooked mushrooms and warm pastry. Outside the darkness deepened, but inside it remained bright, calm, and goodjust as it does after a little trial thats been faced together.
