Winter reminds us to be still, to observe the barer bones of our earth

Eleanor Gilkes hikes through snow-covered gums at Thredbo. Picture: Supplied

Can you feel winter’s clench? The heft into a different light, when the air tightens and the season draws in. Not in all parts of this vast nation, of course, but in this neck of the woods most enjoyably. The bush palette is muted, the neighbourhood sparsens and the locals uncurl as their cars can be parked without effort again. Welcome to the quieter time; the steely breath of our cooler months.

From the depths of autumn cupboards are being rummaged through for blankets and hot water bottles, for heaters on roller wheels and sausages for front door draughts. The first night of the fire is eagerly awaited here – how long can we hold out before surrendering? It’s a gas fire, but beloved nonetheless.

The ultimate dream is a wood fire under a tin roof that the rain thrums upon; a fire fed from fallen gum branches and twigs from somewhere outside that perfume the room with a eucalyptus-tinged smoke. The wily warmth of a fire that has to be coaxed into a roar then constantly tended like a petulant child threatening to disappear too much, a child who cannot be left. But I’ve slept in a swag in front of a crackling, softening fire in a wide colonial hearth and hold this as the gold standard of sleeping arrangements in this land; there’s no better.

Except, possibly, if you’re outside under a wide canopy of winter stars. I recall early attempts at fire-making out bush, when living in Central Australia, and the invariable chuckle from indigenous mates: “You whitefellas, you make them so big, so wasteful.” They taught me the beauty of economy as their fierce little flames were coaxed from almost nothing in a tight fence of two hands.

I love winter in this land. It’s silver brumbies and Driza-Bone coats; it’s heading to discount department stores for novelty slippers and fluffier kids’ jarmies, it’s fairy lights in the kitchen and scented candles by long Sunday baths. It’s the wind’s howl outside that can’t get close and the black branches of a witch’s tree scrabbling at the sky. This vast drawing-in feels soldering and sorely needed; our little loungeroom a snowglobe of warmth against a hostile world.

Memories of childhood joy – the old cracker night, that most thrilling night of the year, with all its marvelling in the black; bungers and Tom Thumbs, Catherine wheels, ball-shooters and throwdowns. Tobogganing in the wonder of snow. A reprieve from snakes. Frost killing the mice. A drive-in properly dark. The softness of Nan’s striped flannelette sheets and government-issued school milk that wasn’t curdled into queasiness from summer’s warmth.

Australia’s winter light is piercing and hard; “severe clear” in pilot talk. For the shy and retiring this is our season, when we unfurl; my temperament isn’t quite right for summer’s social glare and now the mask of sociability can thankfully slip. Winter’s poetry is precise, spare, rigid. The season reminds us to be still, to note; to observe the barer bones of our earth.

Spring seems almost too eager now, pushing into winter’s flinch with an impatient warmth as the world wakes up from its too-brief sleep. The jasmine’s out ever earlier, ditto the wattle obscene with its flashy beauty, and with each passing year I feel we haven’t wallowed nearly enough in the season of rest – and imagine a grim future time when the cold is barely there.

Winter is for snuggling little ones in cosy beds, for drawing eiderdowns up close and filling hot water bottles – it’s an act of love, of attention, this arming of those around you against the insistent cold. Winter is fire envy of the neighbours getting their annual delivery of wood; as the owners of the last traditional fireplace on the street, it’s a show of defiance against modernity. The rest of us smell their bliss, and dream. Winter is coming. Bunker down. Embrace the bliss.