You know it's snowed before you even open your eyes.
The quiet is different.
Outside, the world has turned to lace — frost-fringed and silver-dusted, every twig and leaf caught in a moment of magic.
In the garden, parsley has become a sculpture, the rosemary holds snow like an old woman’s shawl, and the lavender leans under its weight like it’s dreaming.
Even the pin oak, still clinging to a few stubborn leaves, wears them like tiny snow-crusted medals.
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Though, to be clear, loving snow and being ready for it are two very different things.
These days, my daughter and I are slightly more winter-savvy than we used to be.
We each have our own pair of snow boots now — a major upgrade from the years of drawing straws for the single pair of gumboots.
We still don’t own proper snow pants or anything remotely thermal, but we’re resourceful.
Our winter layers are a bit of a patchwork — leggings, jeans, flannel, and the thickest jackets we can find — and it gets the job done.
Mostly.
The cold creeps in early in the season.
First, it’s just frost.
I’ll step outside before dawn to do the morning rounds, and everything glitters under a hard white crust.
The animals’ breath clouds the air, the paddocks crunch underfoot, and the water troughs have to be cracked with a stick just to give the animals a drink.
It’s cold, but manageable.
We carry on.
And then, one morning, everything changes.
You open the curtain just slightly — and gasp.
The world has vanished.
Or rather, it’s been replaced.
Transformed.
Softened.
The first snow has come.
The air feels hushed, like everything is holding its breath.
Trees wear delicate white coats, fences are rounded off in soft drifts, and the paddocks stretch out like a blank page.
There’s always a moment of stillness — where we both just stand at the window and soak it in — before the scrambling begins.
Hats, scarves, layers, boots.
Camera batteries charged.
Sleds located.
Despite the challenges of farming through winter, snow days always feel like a bit of a gift.
Yes, it’s cold, and yes, the morning chores still have to be done — but it all feels a little more magical when the world looks like a snow globe.
This morning, the weather station says it’s -3°C.
I’ve already been out feeding hay to the cattle and sheep.
The chooks are fed, waters checked.
I drag the small bales on a sled through the paddocks, and the animals — standing so still in the frost they look like statues — slowly come to life when they see me coming.
Sometimes, if we’re bringing hay down from the top hayshed, we load the bales onto the sled, then hop on and ride them down the hill — legs tucked up, laughing all the way.
Not particularly safe.
Not particularly graceful.
But unforgettable.
The snow crunches underfoot in a way that never gets old.
The hills around us glow, dusted in white.
Everything looks different — cleaner, simpler, somehow quieter.
We take far too many photos, of course.
We follow prints in the snow — kangaroo, wombat, deer, maybe even a fox or cat.
There are always tiny bird prints skittering around in joyful chaos.
With any luck, there'll be time for a few thrilling sled rides down the driveway — the kind that leave you breathless and half-buried in snow, wondering why on earth you don’t do this every day.
We may even build a snowman if the mood strikes and the snow sticks just right.
Or not.
It’s hard to plan too far ahead when you're having this much fun.
Inside the house, it’s only 14 degrees, but after a couple of hours outside, it feels tropical.
I open the vents wide on the wood stove and the log burner, waiting for that glorious whoosh of heat that will make the windows steam up and our cheeks thaw.
The big cast iron kettle is on, taking its time as usual, but we’re patient.
There’s boots to unlace, fingers to warm and dry clothes to put on!
Eventually, the sun comes out.
It always does.
The sparkle dulls, the white fades to brown, and the once-magical snow becomes an uninspiring slush.
The roof starts dripping like a leaky tap, and now and then there’s a dramatic thud as a sheet of snow slides off and crashes to the ground.
Winter's curtain call.
Snow days are short-lived, messy, inconvenient — and absolutely worth it.
They're the sort of days that remind you to stop, to look, to play.
Even when the cold stings your nose and your toes go numb.
