My memories of Christmas in Australia - prawns, sunscreen, and praying the bushfires won't reach us

Every Christmas Eve, my family would haul our camping chairs out onto the street and look out over the burning bush in the distance, watching the orange glow creep closer and closer as the night went on

The months leading up to Christmas in Australia have a very distinct feel to them. Kilos of prawns fill the fridge, the air is thick with the scent of sunscreen, and Australians everywhere are hoping the fires won’t be too bad this year.

I grew up on Australia’s central coast, in a suburban town that hugged Brisbane Water National Park. Luckily, it’s not home to one of the 60 fires currently burning across the state in what fire chiefs are calling “the most dangerous bushfire week this nation has ever seen”. But plenty of my friends’ homes are.

From the safety of the other side of the world (I’m now in the UK), I scroll through Instagram and see the preparation, the solidarity, and the jokes that thinly veil that sick feeling of uncertainty in the pit of your stomach. My friends are frightened, and I know from experience there’s nothing I can say to take that fear away.

My memories of bushfires all have the same hazy quality to them. Part of that’s because of the thick smoke that turned the sun an apocalyptic red, but part of it’s because there were so many fires growing up it’s hard to tell which one happened when. The strongest memories are of the blazes around Christmas time.

Every Christmas Eve, my family would haul our camping chairs out onto the street to join our neighbours for a drink or two. More often than not, we’d look out over the burning bush in the distance, watching the orange glow creep closer and closer as the night went on. These evenings would always have the same soundtrack; Christmas carols periodically interrupted by a serious news presenter updating the locals on which parts of town were being asked to evacuate. The kids from next door squealed as their dad sprayed them with the hose, pausing for a moment from the annual tradition of covering their house with as much water as possible. If the fires did come, maybe some wet bricks and full gutters would be enough to save their home.

Those were the days you kept a bag packed just in case. Each family had an evacuation plan. In the playground, kids recited the two lists they’d made that summer; the one detailing the presents they hoped to get from Santa and the other the prized possessions they’d take with them in the case of a fire.

Now that I live in London, the absurdity of this kind of life feels so stark. My relationship with nature here is so different. I go into nature to retreat, to calm down, to heal. Back home, nature always felt like something I was fighting against, and losing.

As families in the north of England face rising floodwaters, I’m reminded this relationship with nature isn’t the same for everyone who lives on this island. But as I watch my friends message their loved ones wishing them luck, telling them to keep safe, and begging them to be safe, to leave the house and evacuate early -- I can’t help but feel so lucky to be here.