Dad and Mum pulled up to the gate, the engine of their old Ford humming a little longer in the crisp September air. Oliver stood on the faded path between the flower beds, his battered backpack with a little airplane patch slung over one shoulder. Yellow leaves rustled around him, settling in his boots and catching under the heels of his shoes.
Granddad Arthur stepped onto the porch, straightened his flat cap and gave a warm grin the little lines around his eyes deepened instantly. Oliver felt that something important was about to start, not quite like the usual weekend routines.
Mum kissed him on the top of his head and gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze.
Dont go off mucking about, alright? And listen to Granddad, she said.
Will do, Oliver replied, a bit shy, glancing toward the windows where Grandma Ellie had just popped her head out.
When the car rolled away, the yard fell quiet. Granddad beckoned Oliver over to the sheds and together they chose two wicker baskets a bigger one for him and a smaller one for Oliver. Beside them lay an old canvas tent and a pair of rubber boots; Granddad checked they werent leaking after last nights drizzle. He examined Olivers jacket, zipped it up, and adjusted the hood.
September is prime mushroomseason! Granddad announced, as if hed opened a secret nature calendar. The birch boletes are hiding under the leaves, and the chanterelles love the moss near the spruce. The honey fungi have started popping up too.
Oliver listened, thrilled by the feeling of gearing up for something real. The baskets creaked as they were lifted; the boots were a tad loose, but Granddad just nodded the important thing was keeping the feet dry.
The garden smelled of damp earth and the faint remnants of last nights firepit smoke. Morning mist clung to the puddles along the fence, and when Oliver stepped on the wet leaves they stuck to his soles, leaving little prints on the concrete steps.
Granddad told stories of past forays: how he and Ellie once stumbled across a whole clearing of honey fungi beneath an ancient birch, and how youve got to watch not just under your feet but all around, because mushrooms sometimes hide right beside the trail.
The road to the woods was a short drive down a country lane, past fields of strawyellow grass. Oliver walked beside Granddad, who moved at a leisurely but confident pace, holding his basket close to his hip.
In the forest the scent changed fresh, damp wood mixed with the sharp, earthy perfume of moss among pine roots. Underfoot the grass gave a soft bounce, dotted with fallen leaves; somewhere off to the side a branch dripped droplets onto the forest floor.
Look here, thats a birch bolete, Granddad said, kneeling to point at a mushroom with a pale cap. See the stalk? Its covered in dark scales
Oliver crouched, brushed the cap with his finger it was cool and smooth.
Whys it called that? he asked.
Cause it loves growing near birches, Granddad smiled. Remember the spot!
They gently twisted the mushroom free; Granddad sliced the stalk to show its white, spotless interior.
A few steps on, a tiny yellow chanterelle popped up among the grass.
The edge of a chanterelle is always a little wavy, Granddad explained. And they have that distinct, nutty smell
Oliver sniffed carefully; the scent was indeed nutty.
What if it looks similar? he wondered.
Fake ones are brighter, or theyve lost the smell, Granddad replied. We never pick those.
Their baskets slowly filled a sturdy birch bolete here, a cluster of honey fungi on a fallen log there, their thin stalks and sticky, palerimmed caps peeking out of the moss.
Granddad showed Oliver the difference between real honey fungi and the lookalikes:
The false ones are bright yellow or even orange underneath, he pointed out. The true ones are white or a creamy colour on the lower side
Oliver loved finding each mushroom himself, calling Granddad over to check his haul. When he got it wrong, Granddad calmly walked him through the differences again.
Scattered along the path were vivid red toadstools, large caps dotted with white spots.
Those are beautiful, Oliver said, eyes wide. Why cant we take them?
Theyre poisonous, Granddad said seriously. Best we just admire them.
He sidestepped the toadstool carefully. Oliver began to understand: not everything pretty belongs in the basket.
Every now and then Granddad asked, Remember the differences? If youre unsure, leave it.
Oliver nodded, wanting to be careful, feeling the responsibility for his own basket and for staying close to Granddad.
Deeper in the woods, shafts of sunlight broke through low branches, casting long ribbons of light on the damp ground. It was cooler there, and Olivers fingers sometimes went numb around the basket handle, but the thrill of the hunt kept him warm. A squirrel darted past, birds chattered in the trees. Occasionally a twig snapped ahead maybe a hare, maybe another forager on his own route. The forest felt like a living maze of trunks, moss, rustling leaves and hushed sounds. Underfoot the earth was soft even where a carpet of last years leaves lay, and dark patches of moisture showed between the roots. Granddad pointed out the best places to step so his feet wouldnt get soaked. Oliver tried to match his pace, scanning every side, hunting for fresh spots to impress Grandma Ellie back home. He felt like a proper helper, almost an adult companion, even if he still wanted to grab Granddads hand for reassurance when the wind rattled the trees or the light dimmed, as if the woods were sharing their secrets just with the two of them.
One afternoon, between two spruce trees, Oliver spotted a bunch of orange spots among the moss. He stepped a little off the trail, sat down to get a closer look, and realised it was a whole cluster of chanterelles exactly the kind Granddad had praised earlier. Joy surged through him; he started gathering them one by one, slipping them into his basket, forgetting to look around. When he finally stood, his gaze swept only the tall trunks surrounding him no familiar faces, no voices, just the soft rustle of leaves and an occasional snap of a branch to his left. Oliver froze, his heart thudding faster than usual. It felt like the first time hed been truly alone in a big autumn wood, even if only for a moment. Fear rose instantly, but Granddads words echoed in his mind: stay put if you lose me, shout loudly Ill hear you. He tried to call out, his voice barely louder than his breath.
Granddad? Where are you? Hey, Im here!
A low fog hung between the trees, making them blend together, and sounds seemed muffled. From somewhere to the left a familiar voice called back:
Oi! Im right here, come towards me, keep your head calm!
Oliver breathed deeper, moved toward the voice, called again, listening for a reply. His steps grew steadier, the ground underfoot felt familiar again, and the fear melted as a figure emerged ahead. Granddad stood a short distance away, leaning against an old oak, smiling warmly, waiting as if nothing had happened. The forest noises returned, his heartbeat settled into a steady rhythm. Oliver realised he could trust Granddads words, just as he trusted himself.
Well, look whos back! Granddad gave Oliver a gentle pat on the shoulder, his tone free of any blame just quiet happiness. Oliver stared at the familiar crinkled face, feeling as comfortable as being in his own living room. His heart still raced a bit, but his breathing evened out next to Granddad he felt safe again.
Scared you a bit? Granddad asked softly, lifting his basket from the ground.
Oliver gave a brief nod. Granddad crouched down to be eyelevel with him.
I once got lost in these woods when I was a bit older than you, he said. I thought Id be wandering for ages, but it was only ten minutes The trick is not to run blindly. Stop, call out, let your voice guide you. You did exactly right.
Oliver looked down at his muddy, mossstained boots. He could see the pride in Granddads eyes. The lingering nerves slipped deep down, turning into just a memory.
Shall we head back? Its getting dark, and we should make it out before night falls, Granddad said, fixing his cap and grabbing his basket again. Oliver fell into step, almost shouldertoshoulder with him. Every crunch of leaf underfoot now felt familiar.
When they emerged, the evening wind swept dry leaves along the lane between the trees; ahead, the roof of their cottage peeked through the thin branches of blackberry bushes. Dark streaks of damp grass clung to the basket handles, and their hands were a little chilly after the long walk, but the joy of returning warmed them more than any cup of tea could.
The house welcomed them with soft lamplight and the smell of fresh baked scones from the kitchen. Grandma Ellie waited on the porch, a towel draped over her shoulder.
Oh, you two little adventurers! she exclaimed. Come on, show us what youve found!
She helped Oliver slip off his boots in the hallway the soles were still peppered with leaves and gently took the basket from Granddad, placing it beside her bowl for cleaning the mushrooms.
Inside, the kitchen radiated heat from the stove; the window glass fogged in thin streaks, letting only vague glimmers of the garden lantern and the silhouettes of hedgerows be seen. Oliver perched near the table while Grandma sorted the mushrooms by type birch boletes here, chanterelles there and Granddad produced his little folding knife for the delicate work on the honey fungi.
Even as dusk settled outside, the house felt snug and cosy. Oliver listened to the adults chat about the days walk, then shared his own tales of the finds and how he called Granddads name in the woods. They all listened attentively, and Oliver felt proud to be part of this family tradition. A kettle of hot tea steamed on the counter, the aroma of mushrooms mingling with the sweet scent of the scones. Outside the night deepened, but inside it stayed bright, calm and comforting just the way it does after a small challenge that youve conquered together.
