It was a big part of my life growing up, to celebrate the season change from searing hot summers to cool earth autumn. Living in the city for so long now, I’ve learnt to yearn for the suns return to our side of the world, which brings with it long days at the beach ending with balmy nights outside. Winter means a slight change in wardrobe but not much else with temperatures barely dropping below 15 during the day and white wine merely  exchanged for red.

In the country it is a far different emotional response. Summer is hard for farmers. They carefully watch the ground for the first fallen leaf that signals damp, dew rich mornings, succulent, dark soil ripe for planting and nourishment for their stock. The threat of bushfire all but disappears, with it, the constant sweat and toil to keep the land surviving just a few more weeks.

Autumn brings with it a glimpse of rest just around the corner in winter, the piles of wood in readiness for battening down the hatches, dark nights in front of the warmth it promises. In my house it meant family time, as my parents spent less time focused on the animals and more on preparing our home for the cool change.

Every year we would take a trip to Batlow to collect apples and meet up with our cousins for the annual Rothheudt / Harris picnic. Even so young, I would quietly contemplate the colour change as the trees shed their leaves for another period of sleep. As kids we took great pleasure in building houses from the ground cover, sloshing through the rich mud and dragging it inside.

Living here in Sydney, my feet get itchy this time of year for the life I knew so long ago. I miss the signs of the season change and yearn for crisp mornings where the air makes your throat ache and the frost begins to settle on the grass like diamonds. It wasn’t long into my relationship with Mossy that we began the tradition of fleeing the city for Mt Wilson to surround ourselves in a cloak of red, gold and brown and connect ourselves with the resting earth.

Over the Easter long weekend we bundled the Littles up and snuggled them into the car to watch the temperature drop as the harbour bridge got smaller in our rear view. We climbed the mountain and pointed out the magical climate change from scrub to lush rainforest and finally to elegant European plantation as we arrived at Mt Wilson.

The gorgeous Fir Trees bordering the road lifts my heart

The season had well and truly descended here, the quiet country lanes bordered by sweating piles of leaves and deep furrows of mud just right for stomping through. The Littles took to it like experts kicking up fistfuls and letting them rain down around us. I’d made a giant pot of pumpkin soup and we ate it from oversized mugs warming our chilled hands while we dunked fresh bread rolls.

All snuggled and ready for leafing!

The old, aristocratic gardens were open in abundance, the childhood home of writer Patrick White Withycombe, calm and serene in its shaded beds. We wandered the old church grounds and spent awhile with its sleeping occupants. I revealed in the childlike innocence that returned to my brother and sister as they taught the King to kick a ball across the field.

We slowly and easily drove home, a little sad to come back so soon, vowing to return together just Mossy and I for a much needed night away. I woke this morning to a cool new light, pulling slippers onto the feet of my beloveds as they jumped from their beds, rejoicing in the fact that they have experienced a slice of my childhood and loved it for themselves.



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  1. Rach

     /  April 10, 2012

    That was so beautifully written that i could feel myself on the journey with you…beautiful…how lucky your children are to have you 2 as parents…xx

    • Lady Moss

       /  April 10, 2012

      Thank you Rachael, welcome to Rainbow Lane, glad to have you on our journey!


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