THERE'S a hush that settles over the homestead come autumn, a kind of golden stillness that hangs in the air, broken only by the persistent chatter of birds and the evening chorus of crickets.
The trees, once modest in their summer greens, now take centre stage—Japanese maples glowing crimson, the vivid golden ash and the liquidambar blazing like torches against the sky, pin oaks rustling their bronze flags in the wind, and the smoke bush softening it all with dusky plumes of purple.
Cool, crisp mornings, and the nights are clear enough to see the stars sharp as pins.
The garden slows, the days shorten, and yet there’s a fullness to this season—an earthy richness in the scent of fallen leaves and damp soil, a sense of completion.
I have a row of camellias in front of the kitchen window, Camellia sasanqua ‘Hiryu’.
These camellias, oddly enough, seem to thrive in the shadows.
Planted along the south side of the house, they bloom faithfully each year without ever catching direct sun—proof, perhaps, that not everything needs the spotlight to be beautiful.
They line the verandah like quiet sentinels, their dark pink faces glowing softly in the grey morning light.
From the kitchen sink, I catch glimpses of eastern spinebills and fairy-wrens chasing each other around the branches.
Clearly, they also appreciate the delicate pink flowers, and are a welcome distraction from the clatter of dishes.
Autumn brings more than colour—it brings movement.
The cockatoos are ever-present, boisterous and unbothered.
They’re joined by the rosellas, flashing their reds, blues and greens through the trees.
And then, the quiet joy of spotting a scarlet robin—just one at first, then another.
Locals always keep an eye out for them, their vivid orange chests a cherished sign of the season’s turning.
Out in the paddocks and around the edges of the garden, there’s pruning to be done—shrubs reshaped, trees gently persuaded back into order.
The scent of cut wood and leaf mulch mixes with the smoke of bonfires, curling into the cool air.
You must always be vigilant around fires.
This season, being so dry, I am more so.
Every flame demands attention, every match lit with caution, and I am always careful to have the quad bike and spray unit at the ready!
Still, there’s something comforting in the ritual—clearing, burning, and tidying up.
Apart from the cold, there’s a rhythm to autumn that settles into your bones if you let it.
The light shifts, the mornings arrive a little slower, and the tasks that need doing feel both purposeful and grounding.
It’s the season of sharpening secateurs and pulling on boots that still carry last season’s dirt, and heading out into the garden with a thermos of tea tucked under one arm.
The veggie beds have begun their slow retreat.
Tomatoes, long spent, are pulled and composted.
The last of the pumpkins are hauled in with grateful hearts.
It’s a quieter time, but never a still one.
Scarlet robins flit between fence posts and low branches, always near, never quite still.
There’s something humble and reassuring about their return—like they’re checking in on us, too.
They don’t sing much, but they don’t need to.
Their very presence is a message in itself: you’ve made it through another summer, another season of sun and dryness and heat.
And yet, even as the land exudes this air of winding down, there’s a quiet sense of preparation too.
Garlic goes in now, tucked into furrows with hope and compost.
The first sweet peas are sown against trellises, and the compost heap—often overlooked in busier months—gets the attention it deserves.
This is a season that rewards care.
Back inside, I put the kettle on and make my tea.
Then, nursing a warming cup, I gaze through the kitchen window.
The camellias bloom on without fuss.
The birds continue their patrol of the lawn.
The light fades a little earlier each day.
Autumn on the homestead doesn’t shout; it whispers.
But if you stop to listen, it says everything you need to hear.