This hut sits quietly in the folds of the Snowy Mountains, about 40 minutes from Tumbarumba, NSW. No distractions, no crowds, just a humble hut on a family farm, surrounded by open paddocks and mountain air that feels sharper, cleaner and, honestly, honest. I arrived just as the sun was slipping away. There’s something about arriving in that in between light. The day softens and the world exhales. I dropped my bag without much thought and made my way straight out the back door.

The sky was fading through layers of colour, the kind that doesn’t ask for permission. It just glows in its own glory. Bit like me. I sat there, still, watching the last of the light disappear behind the mountains.

Inside, the hut was simple. Open plan with a country feel, worn in the best way. A woodfire waiting to be lit, a queen bed, a long kitchen with windows overlooking the mountains. The bathroom sat just outside the main space, part of the rhythm of the place. That night, the fire carried the warmth. The soft crackle of burning wood, the faint scent of smoke settling into everything, the kind of heat that’s deeply comforting. I slept heavily, wrapped in that quiet. No traffic, no noise, just the occasional shift of the night and the distant sounds of the land settling.

I rose with the sun, drawn out by the light more than any alarm. I’m practically allergic to alarms, but give me a good sunrise and I’ll be up waiting for her arrival. I wandered out the front door and the mountains were layered in fog, soft and rolling, like they were still waking up too. Then the sun pushed through, bright and clear, cutting through the mist and lighting everything in gold. It stopped me in my tracks. What a rippa of a sight.

The air was cold against my skin and the local cows came to greet me with a quiet morning, their slow movements matching the pace of the land. The gate clicked shut behind me as I left the hut, a small but important ritual of being in someone else’s space. The farm girl in me, no doubt.

I made my way to Lake Mannus for breakfast. The lake sat glassy and calm, holding the reflection of the sky like it didn’t want to let it go. I set up a simple picnic, coffee in hand, something warm to eat, the kind of breakfast that tastes better simply because of where you are. The water was cold, properly cold, the kind that makes you hesitate for a second before committing. But I committed, and committed hard. A full body wake up, that’s for sure. Fresh.

After drying off in the sun, I drove into Tumbarumba. So many friendly faces, easy conversations, the kind of place where people say hello without needing a reason. I lost count of how many dogs I stopped to pat. Honestly, dogs are the best. I wandered into a local café and ended up chatting with the barista about gemstones, one of those unexpected conversations that sticks with you. I ordered something I’d never tried before, a ginger lemon raspberry slice. By heck, it was good. It shouldn’t have worked, but it really did.

By the afternoon, I was back at the hut. The fire came back to life, crackling steadily as the temperature dropped again. I made a cup of tea and sank into the couch, watching the sun set from inside this time. The light stretched across the paddocks, catching on the single giant gum tree off to the side, casting long shadows across the green. Night settled in quietly and so did I. Somewhere out in the dark, an owl called, a soft, hollow sound that echoed just enough to remind you that you weren’t entirely alone, and yet it felt like solitude in the best way.

Morning came again and it was time to leave. I wandered outside one last time, breathing in that good old country air. The paddocks stretched wide and green, the mountains sitting quietly in the distance, unchanged. That single gum tree stood still, holding its place like it always had. I said my goodbyes to the slow moving locals, the mountains and the humble hut. There was no big moment, no rush to leave, just the sound of my boots on gravel, a gate opening, then closing behind me.