She remembered walking briskly with fellow nurses past a metal railing fence on the way to work at what is now the old hospital, snapping sizable stalactites from the top rail and sucking them like paddlepops.

I haven’t seen what I call a real frost this year – one that freezes the water pipes and puts a layer of ice on puddles, birdbaths, ponds, horse troughs and the dogs’ drinking bowls.

Come to think of it, I haven’t seen a frozen wonder world – one where trees and ground alike glitter as the sun finally comes through – since we lived at Wyndham. A hard frost descended in the early hours of one morning, and froze everything, including two aged and substantial lemon trees to their base. Their blackened forms had to be cut back to the ground, but they both eventually regrew.

When the Man of the House and I set off for Canberra the other morning river mist meant there was no heavy frost in the valley; but that changed as we climbed the Brown Mountain.

Near the summit were patches of ground that rarely receive direct sunlight; these gleamed like cakes dusted with icing sugar.

We had left before light, without walking the dogs, who were doing a good job of misting up the windows, and we needed to find a spot to let them out.

Nimmitabel was transformed by heavy frost, making it look like Christmas card. I know the glitter on Christmas cards is inappropriate for Australia, but I always feel cheated if I don’t receive one with a fair amount sparkle on it. My sister in Canada knows this, and always makes sure I do.

We pulled in at Lake William, put the dogs on leads, and started walking.

Or trying to. The track around the lake was frozen solid, as were parts of the lake itself. The timber footbridges gleamed, and were as slippery as a skating rink. The dogs managed better on four paws than we did on our two feet, but even they went for the occasional slide.

Our combined breath looked like a puffing billy, our noses shone red (well, the dogs are black, but they certainly shone) and for the first time in years I did not find my big woollen cardigan too warm.

I kept thinking how cold the dogs’ feet must be; I remember an ex-mayor of Bega telling how, as a child, they were sent out barefoot in winter over frosty grass to bring the cows in for milking.

Their only way of warming their feet before the task was over was to stand in a steaming cow pat.

My footwear on this occasion was boots with heels – fashionable, but not practical. I almost wound up on all fours like the dogs, and just hoped I didn’t wind up sliding onto the icy water.

The Moth, who never considers fashion, was better off in his flat shoes; but even so, Zahli nearly had him off his feet several times, darting after the waterbirds that rose at our approach.

Far from being cold, the dogs appeared excited and rejuvenated by the winter world that we were walking in. When I could stay upright for long enough, I , too, could appreciate the sheer beauty of it. Nimmitabel had only surpassed itself once that I recalled – when heavy snow fell a few years ago, and all was cushioned in white softness.

From Bredbo to the Brown Mountain all was white, and the scene at the Nimmitabel Pie Shop, where those stranded until the snow ploughs came along, was of festivity – snowmen, snowball fights, makeshift sleds and steaming hot mugs of soup.

A heavy covering of frost is lovely in a different way, but lethal; I was not sorry to scramble back into the car, where hot tea in the thermos waited, and admire the winter scene in comfort – until the dogs misted up the windscreen again.

If that nurse could have walked around the lake too, no doubt she would have found a stalactite or two to snap off.