The Sentinel, near Ben Lomand

We’d spent the day rambling along the backroads, and through the little towns, slowly making our way towards the mountain. The shadows lengthened, but the sky was still a deep blue in the late winter light. It was bitterly cold, and a wisp of mist lay over Ben Lomond. The ghostly moon was on the rise beside this magnificent wayside gum, emerging – like an ancient sentinel – from the tussocky grasses.