The wind roared and plunged frenziedly through the trees, shrieking and wailing with theatrical violence. It caught me off guard and almost succeeded in unbalancing me. The steady relentless rain that makes the grass and the trees and even the hills look tired and defeated stung my eyes, my face and my legs, it trickled through my hair and seeped in rivulets down my neck.

Walking the property, it is wonderful to feel the sodden earth beneath my feet. To see our creek gurgle and tumble over the rocks and to pour into the National Park which abounds our property.

During the week the rain came down in torrents but by Friday morning there seemed to be a faint prospect of the day developing into a reasonably fine one. The stream still gushed exhilaratingly. The hills loomed darkly through a billowing mantle of cloud, the tawny washed hills stretched interminably and a chill eddying breeze whispered a message to the trembling grasses.

The grey blanket of sky being swept northwards revealed elusive shafts of sunlights which patterned the fields with pools of gold. Gradually the cloud lifted and wintry peaks appeared, hastling one another for a glimpse of the morning's sun which transforms the sky into a rippling canopy of blue and gold.

And Mount Buller could finally be seen, in all its wintry glory, for the first snows had fallen to cover its peak. The ski season has begun ...