On a clear and warm October afternoon, we set out on a walk. It had been more than a year since I had last trod the unpaved paths weaving in and out of the woods surrounding my grandparents' lakeside mökki. The lazy autumn sun and its slanted, hazy light were our constant companions and they adorned the familiar country scenes with a dreamlike beauty that made my stomach lurch. As our boots kicked about pebbles and the conversation hopped carelessly from this to that, we reached the village. Grandma fished her mobile phone out of her pocket and called the yellow farm that had started to emerge in the distance to inform them in her amusing, blunt fashion that we were about to drop by to purchase a few kilograms of their potatoes. "Yes, and we're making mushroom sauce to go along with them as soon as we get back."
By the time we walked into their front garden, a dusty, bearded man was already waiting for us with a bulging paper sack in one hand and a battered cap in the other.