Dear Diary,
Dad and Mum pulled up to the gate and let the engine hum for a few moments in the cool September air. I stood on the faded path between the flowerbeds, clutching my old rucksack with a little airplane patch sewn on the front. Yellow leaves rustled around me, settling on my boots and getting caught beneath the heels.
Granddad Arthur stepped onto the porch, straightened his flat cap and gave me a smile that deepened the lines around his eyes. I felt that something important was about to begin, not quite like the usual outings.
Mum pressed a kiss to the top of my head and gave my shoulder a gentle pat.
Dont go off gallivanting, alright? And mind Granddad, she said.
Of course, I answered, a little embarrassed, glancing toward the windows where Grandmum Ethel had just flashed by.
When they drove off, the yard fell quiet. Granddad called me over to the shed and we started picking out baskets for the walkone larger for him, a smaller one for me. Nearby lay an old canvas tent and a pair of wellworn rubber boots; Granddad checked that none of them leaked after last nights rain. He inspected my jacket, zipped every fastener and adjusted the hood.
September is prime mushroom season! Granddad declared, as if hed opened a secret nature calendar. The birch mushrooms are hiding under the leaves now, and the chanterelles love the moss by the firs. The honey fungus has started popping up too.
I listened intently; I loved the feeling of gearing up for something real. The baskets creaked as we lifted them; the boots were a touch big, but Granddad only noddedwhat mattered was keeping my feet dry.
The garden smelled of damp earth and the lingering smoke of old campfires. Morning mist hovered over the puddles along the fence; when I stepped on wet leaves they stuck to the soles and left dark marks on the stone steps.
Granddad talked about past forays: how he and Grandmum once discovered a whole patch of honey fungus under an ancient birch, and how its vital to watch not just the ground but the whole surroundingsmushrooms can be right beside the trail.
The road to the woods was short, a country lane winding through a field of wilted grass. I walked beside Granddad; he moved at an easy, confident pace, basket pressed against his hip.
In the forest the scent changedto the fresh tang of damp wood and the sharp perfume of moss among the pine roots. Underfoot the grass gave way to a soft carpet of fallen leaves; somewhere off to one side a drip of dew fell from a branch onto the forest floor.
Look here, thats a birch mushroom, Granddad said, bending to show a palecapped specimen. See the stem? Its covered in dark scales
I knelt, brushed the cap with a fingerit was cool and smooth.
Whys it called that? I asked.
Because it loves birch trees, he replied with a grin. Remember the spot!
We twisted the mushroom free, he cut the stem openinside it was pure white, spotless.
Further on a small yellow chanterelle caught my eye.
Chanterelles always have wavy edges, Granddad explained. And they smell a bit nutty
I gave the little fungus a cautious sniffthere was indeed a faint, pleasant nutty aroma.
What if a lookalike shows up? I wondered.
The false ones are brighter or have no scent at all, Granddad said. We never pick those.
Our baskets began to fill: a sturdy birch mushroom here, a cluster of honey fungus on a stump therethin stems, tiny sticky caps with pale rims. Granddad showed me how to tell real honey fungus from the impostors.
Fake ones are bright yellow or orange underneath, he pointed out. The genuine ones are white or a creamy shade below.
I loved finding mushrooms on my owneach time I called Granddad over to see my find. If I made a mistake, he calmly explained it again.
Red flyagarics dotted the pathlarge caps with snowy spots.
Those are beautiful, I said. Why cant we take them?
Theyre poisonous, Granddad warned seriously. Just admire them.
He stepped around one carefully. I began to understand that not everything pretty belongs in the basket.
Sometimes hed ask, Remember the differences now? If youre unsure, leave it.
I nodded, determined to be careful, feeling responsible for my basket and for staying close to him.
Deeper in the woods the sun filtered through low branches, casting long strips of light on the damp earth. It was cooler there; my fingers sometimes went numb on the basket handle, yet the thrill of the hunt kept me warmer than any glove. A squirrel darted past, birds chattered in the canopy, and an occasional snap of a twig hinted at a rabbit or perhaps another forager ahead. The forest felt like a living maze of trunks, moss, rustling leaves and muted sounds. Even where the ground was a carpet of last years foliage, the footing was soft, and dark patches of moisture glimmered between roots. Granddad showed me the best spots to step to keep my feet from getting soaked. I tried to match his pace, scanning all around, hoping to surprise Grandmum with a fresh haul at home. I felt like his assistant, almost an adult companion, though sometimes I still wanted to clutch his hand for reassurance when the wind howled or the woods grew dim, as if the forest were sharing its secrets just with the two of us.
One day, between two firs, I spotted a splash of orange among the moss. I moved a little farther from the trail, sat down, and examined it closelyit turned out to be a whole bunch of chanterelles, exactly the kind Granddad had praised earlier. Joy surged through me; I gathered them one by one, slipping them into my basket, forgetting to look around. When I finally stood, my eyes met only the towering trunks; no familiar silhouette, no voice, no footstepsjust the soft rustle of leaves and the occasional crack of a branch. My heart hammered faster than usual. It felt as though I was truly alone in the big autumn woods, even if only for a moment. Fear rose instantly, but Granddads words echoed: stay put, call loud if you lose me, Ill answer. My voice was barely a whisper at first, then steadier:
Granddad, where are you? Hey, Im here!
A mist clung between the trees, making them blend together, the sounds muffled. From the left a familiar voice called back:
Oi! Im here, come towards me, keep calm and follow my voice!
I breathed deeper, moved toward the sound, called again, listening for my name. My steps grew surer, the ground underfoot felt familiar again, and the fear melted into relief when Granddads figure emerged, leaning against an old oak, smiling warmly, waiting as though nothing had happened. The forest noises revived, my pulse steadied, and I realized I could trust an adults words just as I trusted myself.
Gotcha! Granddad gave my shoulder a gentle pat, his gesture free of blame or worryjust quiet joy. I stared at his wrinkled face; it felt as familiar as my own bedroom. My heart still thumped, but my breathing evenednext to Granddad I felt safe again.
Scared you? he asked softly, lifting the basket off the ground.
I noddedbriefly, honestly. He crouched down to my level.
I once got lost in these woods when I was a bit older than you. I thought Id been wandering for hours, but it was only ten minutes The trick is not to run blindly. Stop, call out, listen. You did exactly right.
I looked down at my mudsplattered boots, the bits of moss clinging to them, and felt his pride. The lingering nervousness slipped deep inside, turning into a memory rather than a fright.
Shall we head back? Its getting dark. We need to reach the path before night falls, Granddad said, straightening his cap and grabbing the basket handle. I stepped close behind him. Every crunch of leaf underfoot now sounded comforting. We walked side by side; I liked feeling part of something larger even in these simple choices.
When we emerged, the evening wind chased dry leaves along the lane between the trees; ahead, the roof of the cottage peeked through the thin birch branches. The basket handles bore dark streaks of wet grass; my hands were a little chilly after the long walkbut the warmth of returning home beat any hot tea could.
The house greeted us with soft window light and the smell of fresh baking. Grandmum Ethel waited on the porch with a towel draped over her shoulder:
Oh my, you two look like champions! Show me what youve caught!
She helped me pull off my boots in the hallwayleaves still stuck to the solesthen took Granddads basket, placing it beside her own bowl for cleaning the mushrooms.
The kitchen glowed with the stoves heat; the window pane fogged in thin streaks, only the faint glow of a lantern outside and the silhouettes of the hedges visible beyond. I settled near the table while Grandmum sorted the mushrooms by typebirch mushrooms here, chanterelles therewhile Granddad produced his folding knife for the delicate work on the honey fungus.
Even as night fell outside, the house felt especially cozy. I recounted the days discoveries, the way Id called for Granddad, and the adults listened intently, not interrupting. I wanted to believe I was now part of this family tradition. A kettle of hot tea steamed on the table, the aroma of mushrooms and baked goods filling the air. Outside, darkness deepened, but inside it was bright, calm and goodjust the way it feels after a little test that youve passed together.
