Frost

Canberra is the coldest city in Australia, even eclipsing Hobart in mid-winter. Early morning temperatures are often in the minuses, with heavy frost or fog being quite common. Frost often occurs on days with clear blue skies, which makes the contrast even more alluring.

Walking the dog on this sea of grey-white is a wonderous experience. The dog, energised by the cold, slips and slides as she bounds across a field. She stops to lick the grass, roll on it, before leaping around with feet going every which way. Her joy at this winter wonderland is infectious. I can’t help but laugh and run after her. I make a mental note to take her to the snow this winter to see her reaction.

The field is like an old man’s closely shaved beard; patchy, grey and uneven. The grass’ reaction to the cold is to go dormant and conserve the energy it has until it becomes warmer and more conducive to growth. It is a reaction with which I empathise. Getting up early to take the dog for a walk is getting harder with each degree that the temperature drops.

Yet once I am out here, my nose numb and hands firmly planted in my pockets, I know I am alive, ready for next marvel the world offers. As the sun’s rays reach the frosty grass, I notice a shimmer as if fine glitter were strewn across the landscape. I look closely and discover that tiny frozen dewdrops are melting, refracting the sunlight. A soft white glow surrounds these droplets, which I have discovered are called Heiligenschein even in English. It means halo, but I much prefer the German word joining holy and glow. There is something otherworldly and awe-inspiring about these tiny droplets. The more I walk along this path, the more I realise that each morning offers up a novel experience. This is what makes rolling out of bed worthwhile.