The first sign wasn’t a date on the calendar. For Maggie, who had lived through fifty Australian springs on her farm in the Southern Tablelands of New South Wales, it was a scent. One morning in late August, she stepped onto her veranda with a cup of black tea, and the air had changed. The sharp, eucalyptus bite of winter was softening, replaced by something sweet and hopeful—the first tiny blossoms of the wattle.
The real spectacle began when the jacarandas along the creek started to bloom. It wasn’t just a tree turning purple; it was a detonation of violet so intense it hurt to look at. The blossoms fell like confetti onto the still, brown water, and Lila spent hours trying to catch the blue-tongue lizards that sunned themselves on the warm rocks, drunk on the warmth after their long, cold sleep. spring time in australia
“Right then,” she said to her old kelpie, Blue. “Time to wake up.” The first sign wasn’t a date on the calendar
“That’s a good thing, love,” Maggie laughed. “Without them, no apples. No plums. No honey on your toast.” The sharp, eucalyptus bite of winter was softening,
Maggie’s granddaughter, Lila, arrived from Melbourne for the school holidays. To Lila, spring in the country was a chaotic, glorious explosion. The first afternoon, she ran inside with a shoe full of mud and a handful of “frogs”—actually pink and white patrols of clover flowers.