The parents pulled up to the gate, the engine of their Ford still idling in the crisp September air. Billy stood on the faded path between the garden beds, a battered backpack with a little airplane patch slung over his shoulder. Yellow leaves rustled around him, settling on his boots and getting caught under the heels.
Granddad stepped onto the porch, straightened his flat cap and gave a grin; the lines around his eyes deepened at once. Billy felt that something important was about to start, not quite like the usual outings.
Mum kissed her son on the top of his head and gave his shoulder a gentle pat.
Dont go off gallivanting, alright? And listen to Granddad, she said.
Will do, Billy answered, looking a bit shy as the house windows flashed the familiar shape of his grandmother passing by.
When the car disappeared down the lane, the courtyard fell quiet. Granddad called his grandson over to the shed, and together they chose baskets for the walkone larger for himself, a smaller one for Billy. Next to them lay an old canvas tent and a pair of rubber wellies; Granddad checked that nothing was leaking after last nights drizzle. He examined Billys jacket, zipped up all the fastenings and adjusted the hood.
Septembers the prime mushroom month, Granddad declared with the confidence of someone consulting a secret nature calendar. The birch bolete is hiding under the leaves right now, and the chanterelles love the moss by the spruce. The honey fungus has started to appear, too.
Billy listened intently; he liked the feeling of gearing up for something real. The baskets creaked as they were carried; the boots were a touch big, but Granddad only shook his head: the important thing was keeping his feet dry.
The yard smelled of damp earth and the faint wisp of smoke from past bonfires. Morning mist lay over the puddles along the fence; when Billy stepped on the slick leaves they clung to his soles, leaving prints on the flagstones.
Granddad regaled him with tales of earlier forays: how he and Grandma once stumbled upon a whole clearing of honey fungus beneath an ancient birch, and how you must watch not just underfoot but all around, for mushrooms sometimes hide right beside the trail.
The road to the woods was short: a country lane winding through a field of wilted grass. Billy walked beside Granddad, who moved at a leisurely but steady pace, the basket resting against his hip.
In the woods the scent changedto fresh, sapsoaked timber and the sharp perfume of moss under spruce roots. The ground gave a soft spring as grass mixed with fallen leaves; somewhere off to the side the dew dripped from branches onto the soil.
Look here, thats a birch bolete, Granddad said, bending to point out a lightcapped mushroom. See the stalk? Its covered in dark scales
Billy knelt, brushed the cap with a fingertipit was cool and smooth.
Whys it called that?
Because it loves to grow by birches, Granddad smiled. Remember the spot!
They twisted the mushroom free; Granddad sliced the stalk to show its white, spotfree interior.
Further on, a small yellow chanterelle poked out from the grass.
The chanterelles always have that wavy edge, Granddad explained. And they smell a bit nutty
Billy gave the fungus a careful sniff; the nutty scent was unmistakable.
What if it looks similar?
Fakes are brighter or have no scent at all, Granddad warned. We never pick those.
Soon the baskets grew heavy: a sturdy birch bolete here, a clump of honey fungus sprouting from a fallen log therethin stalks, tiny sticky caps with pale rims.
Granddad pointed out the differences between true honey fungus and the impostors:
The fakes are bright yellow or even orange on the underside, he showed. The real ones are white or a faint cream underneath
Billy loved finding the mushrooms himself; each discovery prompted him to call Granddad over for a look. When he made a mistake, Granddad patiently explained the distinction again.
Red flyagarics dotted the pathlarge mushrooms with snowy spots on their caps.
Theyre beautiful, Billy remarked. Why cant we take them?
Because theyre poisonous, Granddad answered seriously. We can only admire them.
He sidestepped the flyagaric carefully. Billy began to see that not every pretty thing belonged in the basket.
Every now and then Granddad would ask, Do you remember the differences now? If youre unsure, leave it.
Billy nodded, determined to be careful, feeling the weight of responsibility for his own basket and for walking beside his Granddad.
Deeper in the wood, sunlight filtered through low branches, casting long bars of light on the damp earth. It was cooler there; Billys fingers sometimes went numb on the basket handle, yet the thrill of the hunt kept his hands warm. A squirrel darted across a branch, birds chattered overhead. Occasionally a twig snapped aheadperhaps a hare or another forager on his own route. The forest felt like a living maze of trunks, moss, rustling leaves and muffled sounds. The ground was soft even where it was carpeted with last years foliage, and dark patches of moisture lingered among the roots. Granddad showed where to step to keep his feet from getting soaked. Billy kept close, scanning all around, hoping to find fresh spots that would impress Grandma later at home. He felt like an assistant, almost an adult companion, though sometimes he still wanted to grab Granddads hand for reassurance when the wind howled or the shadows grew thicker, as if the woods were sharing their secrets only with the two of them.
One day, between two spruce trees, Billy thought he saw a cluster of orange spots among the moss. He moved a little farther from the trail, sat down to examine the find, and discovered a whole bunch of chanterellesexactly the kind Granddad had praised earlier. Joy surged through him; he gathered the mushrooms one by one, loading them into his basket, completely forgetting to look around. When he stood up, his gaze met only the towering trunks; no familiar silhouette, no voice, no footfallsjust the soft rustle of leaves and the occasional crack of a branch to the side. Billy froze, his heart thudding faster than usual. It seemed, for the first time, he was alone in a large autumn wood, even if only for a moment. Fear rose instantly, but Granddads words echoed in his mind: stay where you are, call out loudly if you lose me, Ill answer. He tried to call, his voice barely louder than his breathing. Then a steadier shout:
Granddad, where are you? Hey, Im here!
A thin mist hung between the trees, making each trunk look the same, the sounds softer, muffled. From the left a familiar voice called back:
Oi! Im here, come towards me, follow my voicejust keep calm!
Billy took a deeper breath, moved toward the sound, called again, straining to be heard. His steps grew surer, the earth underfoot feeling familiar once more, and the fear eased as a figure emerged ahead. Granddad was leaning against an old oak, smiling warmly, waiting as if nothing had happened. The forest noises returned, and Billys pulse steadied. He realised he could trust an adults words just as he trusted himself.
Gotcha! Granddad said, giving Billy a gentle pat on the shoulder, his gesture free of blame or worryonly quiet joy. Billy stared at the lined face, which felt as familiar as his own living room. His heart still raced, but his breathing evened outnow, beside Granddad, he felt safe again.
Did that scare you? Granddad asked softly, lifting his basket from the ground.
Billy gave a short, honest nod. Granddad crouched to meet his eye level.
I once got lost in these woods when I was a bit older than you, he began. It felt like Id been wandering for a whole day, but it was only ten minutes The trick is not to run blindly. Stop, call, and listen. You did exactly right.
Billy looked down at his muddy, mossstained wellies. He sensed Granddads pride. The lingering unease slipped deep inside, turning into a memory rather than a fright.
Shall we head back? Its getting dark, and we need to get out before night falls, Granddad said, adjusting his cap and grabbing his baskets handle. Billy fell into step beside him, his stride now comfortable. Each crunch of leaf underfoot felt like home. They walked together; Billy enjoyed feeling part of something larger, even in the simple act of heading back.
At the forests edge the air turned fresh; the evening wind swept dry leaves along the path between the trees. In the distance the roof of a cottage peeked through slender hawthorn branches. The baskets bore dark streaks from wet grass; Billys palms were a bit chilly after the long walk, yet the pleasure of returning warmed him more than any hot tea could.
The house welcomed them with soft lamplight and the smell of fresh baking. Grandmother waited on the porch, a towel draped over her shoulder.
Goodness! Look at you two, what a haul! she exclaimed. Come on, show us what youve found.
She helped Billy pull off his boots in the hallwayleaves clinging to the solesand carefully took Granddads basket, placing it beside her own bowl for cleaning mushrooms.
Inside, the kitchen glowed with the stoves heat; the window glass fogged in narrow streaks, revealing only faint lantern lights outside and the silhouettes of trees beyond the hedge. Billy sat near the table while Grandmother skillfully sorted the mushroomsbirch boletes here, chanterelles thereGranddad produced his folding knife for the delicate work on the honey fungus.
Evening fell quickly outside, but the house felt snug. Billy listened to the adults discussing the days walk, then recounted his finds and how he called out for Granddad. They listened attentively, and Billy felt hed truly become part of the familys mushroomforaging tradition. A steaming kettle boiled, the air filled with the aroma of fresh fungi and baked goods. Outside darkness deepened, yet inside it stayed bright, calm, and pleasantjust the way it does after a small trial thats been faced together.
