Being a child of Mother England, I have to admit to a certain fondness for this time of year.
As the mercury starts to head south and greying clouds bring showers of rain, thoughts turn to slow-cooked casseroles and hot cups of tea on a Sunday morning with a rustling newspaper.
Barren brown fields of grass turn to lush green pastures, bees and butterflies wafting overhead while fattening sheep gather at waterholes and horses graze contentedly.
The river swells, washing across rocks downstream and creeping up the bank towards the blue gums, tall and silent sentinels to the coming and going of time and tide.
The wardrobe is raided for scarves and boots, dusty and forgotten down the back among the dead moths and odd socks, smelling slightly musty from last year’s winter outings.
Frost appears on the car windscreen and dangles like diamonds in delicate spider webs stretched across tree branches.
Firewood is cut and split, then stacked up high to await cosy evenings with friends and family and long clear nights where stars brighten up a big sky.
The days are full of glorious sunshine, bracketed by a brisk coolness in the mornings and evenings.
Winter school uniforms, with restricting ties and heavy woollen jumpers, are worn by kids bemoaning the loss of freedom a pair of thongs and sloppy T-shirt affords.
We begin to prepare for winter in Melbourne, with its biting winds that go right through you, cold noses and freezing hands, icy roads and dark evenings.
But for now, it’s temperate weather and warm days. I will enjoy the deep breath before the icy plunge.
Emma Sutcliffe is a local freelance writer who writes at littleriveremma.com
