Winter Solstice, Hobart: The Longest Night

The sun set at 4.42 this afternoon. By five the sky over the Derwent was a deep, bruised blue and every chimney in North Hobart was going. The city gets festive about the dark in June: fire-lit bars, lantern parades, people plunging into the river at dawn for no reason anyone can explain. I love it. It's the only time of year the darkness feels like an event rather than a chore.

I had one booking tonight, three hours, with a man who'd flown down from Brisbane specifically for the solstice. He'd never seen proper winter, he said in his email, and he wanted to see what the fuss was about.

Before

I prepared the room like a winter burrow. Extra blankets on the bed, the oil heater on early so the air was soft rather than stuffy, a pot of spiced apple juice warming on the stove, candles on every flat surface. I wore a deep green velvet dress and thick socks, because glamour does not beat Tasmanian floorboards.

During

He arrived pink-cheeked and delighted, and said it was the coldest he'd ever been in his life. It was eight degrees. I didn't have the heart to tell him that's mild.

We sat by the heater and drank the spiced juice and he told me about growing up in the tropics, about mango season and afternoon storms, about how he'd always felt a little suspicious of people who said they liked winter. I told him about waking up to snow on the mountain, the silver of frost on the lawns, the pleasure of coming inside from the cold to somewhere warm and welcoming.

"Like this," he said. "Yes," I said. "Exactly like this."

The rest of our three hours stays in that warm room.

After

I walked him to the corner at eleven. The sky had cleared and there were more stars than he'd ever seen, he said, and he stood there with his head tipped back until his nose went numb. I pointed out the Southern Cross. He'd seen it all his life and never really looked.

Now

It's past midnight. The days start getting longer from here, by a minute or two at a time. I'm tucked up with a hot water bottle and a book, and I'm thinking about how the darkest night of the year can also be one of the warmest, if you fill it with the right things.