A piece from my writing course – hope you like it. They did.

Weston Lea – (take the reader on a journey to your favourite place).

On 1000 acres on top of a hill, high above the Snowy River, Dad puts the kettle on the old wood-fire stove. His dog Jock warms my feet. Yesterday it got to -10 with a flurry of snow, but today the weather is below us leaving us on the edge of a grey cloud sea with the sunshine warming my back. Lichen and moss covers the granite boulders outside like this hand knitted wool beanie covers my head. The snow-gums sparkle as the last of the frost burns off.

It’s cold but the wind is still. A far cry from the howling last night where the winds icy fingers would pry through the gaps in the walls of the half built cabin. There is no paint on the walls and a window is missing some glass from the last storm but right now I can’t hear a single sound except for the song of a lone magpie and the crackling of the fire.

Dad takes the kettle and makes me a cuppa. He asks me if I want another piece of toast – Karen makes a rustic seeded sourdough that only ever needs butter.

The topics of conversation are be lofty – should we build a trout farm, a vineyard or even a castle. We would banter and chat all afternoon, if not for the woodpile getting low. A few chores linger on the day to break up the afternoon between coffees.

It’s my favourite place. Time slows down; the landscape humbles you like a breath to a blizzard. The cabin has no power or town water and the small everyday chores make you live in the moment. But when all the chores are done, or half done, or not done at all, I get to hide beside the fire with my endless cup of coffee and talk shit with my Dad. I can listen to the wind stirring the snow gums and dream big dreams that will never come true.