Soggy days of mist, wet leaves and woodsmoke.
For a lot of us, it’s a love-hate thing.
For those who enjoy a scorching beach with an iced blueberry vodka smash, the idea of winter must be relentless hell.
On the other hand, for us misty mountain people there’s nothing better than a soggy day because it means another chance to build a log fire and embrace it with a glass of Spätburgunder to recount the glory days of fishing and golf or poems we wrote that could have changed the course of history.
But first things first.
Before all the stories and the braggadocio and warm nostalgia, comes the log fire.
And fire-building is an art as great as swinging a golf club or casting a line.
So, let’s get down to the fundamentals.
A great fire starts with good paper.
I find fish and chip wrapping, the white plain stuff not the ink-stained newspaper nonsense, makes the best fire-starter. A plain white roll of wood-pulp newsprint, before the daily tragedies and scandals make their oily mark, makes a clean bright flame ready to ignite things.
If you don’t live near a news printing press, or you don’t eat fish and chips every night, then The Age or any word-heavy broadsheet is good for clean combustion. At all costs, avoid picture-heavy cheap tabloids because the ink burns in a flashy rainbow of green and purple like a poisonous devil’s cauldron of the sport, sex and crime splashed across their pages. This can be distracting for the serious fire-builder. Tabloid newspaper is best used for garden mulch because it gives a delicious feeling of victory as the infantile headlines stick to your boots and sink into the earth to become potatoes.
Next comes the twist.
The paper twist is an essential art to master. I find a single newspaper page folded in half and twisted with a lightning wrist flick, creating a dense woody centre and light flammable outer edges, is the best.
Now comes the essential ingredient: wood. Let’s start with kindling because you can’t throw a giant log on to paper and expect it to burn straight away.
Dried gum leaves are the perfect kindling, but finding dry leaves on a soggy day is like looking for pearls in a wet cow paddock. So, without gum leaves it’s down to shaving big wedges of timber into thin splinters using a log splitter.
The art here involves finding the right corner of the timber wedge to aim for. The grain must flow in the direction of your blade and your swing must have the focus of a Samurai or you could lose an ankle or worse.
A firm grip on the axe handle will help avoid self-mutilation or the manslaughter of your neighbour.
Finally, it’s down to the nitty-gritty of what sort of wood to burn. This is a minefield of arboreal argument. Redgum is harder to chop than boxwood, but it lasts longer on the fire. Box is softer to chop and makes great kindling but burns quickly and makes more ash.
It’s a complicated business.
In a perfect world your winter firewood supply will comprise an ethically sourced blend of redgum and boxwood. However, a loungeroom fire is a hungry beast, and in desperation I have secretly resorted to burning ugly reproduction Chippendale chairs, Indonesian bed frames, wobbly Ikea coffee tables and — for God’s sake don’t tell the Chief Gardener — garden stakes.
Maintaining a winter fire is not for the faint-hearted or the weekend pyrotechnician. It takes rat cunning, Viking axe skills and ruthless dedication.
I realise this is beyond most people’s commitment, but log fire amateurs all live in Queensland anyway.