With short sombre days and long cold nights, the time around the Winter solstice is thought, by some, as a time to hibernate.

Not here, though, where it’s become a time to celebrate the season in the company of friends. At home and beyond, in the soft light of candle and fire, we tuck into hearty dishes, indulge in rich puddings and raise glasses on the flimsiest pretext.

In the depths of Winter, with no Christmas to cheer us, we could celebrate Yuletide,  Aurora (as in Aurora Australis) or even the eclipse of the moon. A Christmas-in-July is fine, if you can afford it, but really, any excuse that fits the budget will do.

Before an evening out we layer on warm clothes, as if preparing for adventure. Rattling along in our old jalopy, deep in the countryside on a cold Winter’s night, anything could happen.

And when it does, a spare blanket could save a life; if not ours from hypothermia while waiting for help in a stalled car, then perhaps a wallaby’s or a roo’s or some other wild creature’s whose bounding journey happens to coincide – and collide – with ours. And I’m never without a torch, even on the brightest of moonlit nights. Too late, I realise the phone battery’s low. Not that we’ll have any coverage till we reach town.

And we do, you’ll be happy to know, make it there without incident. A warm welcome, a wonderful dinner, fine wine and a convivial evening of laughter and chat set us right for the journey home and the weather ahead.

Having ventured forth into mist earlier, we’re now bound in fog. Inching blindly – the countryside reduced to eternity, the road ending where it begins – nothing appears as it was. A night like this demands strict attention and I’m now glad I resisted that third glass of wine.

After the long ordeal of a normally brief trip, we’re relieved to be home. We divest ourselves of gloves, coats, jackets and scarves and sit by the fire drinking tea, winding down while our beds warm up.

Outside, the fog lifts. In bright moonlight, frog song echoes from valley to hilltop. In paddocks sheep bleat for their soft little lambs, born in an unforgiving season; cattle bellow warnings of coming cold.

They know that one night soon a steadily creeping frost will blanket the land in a stiff, white, damaging silence.