A few weeks ago, Peter and I stepped out of the crisp Southern Highlands cold and into the historic Robertson Hotel, a place filled with grand Gatsby-era elegance.

What waited inside made me stop and take it all in.

The hotel seemed to glow around us. Open fires burned in the heritage rooms, Christmas lights shimmered against dark timber, and decorations climbed the sweeping staircases and appeared in alcoves, mirrors and unexpected corners. Everywhere I looked, there was something beautiful.

I felt an immediate flicker of excitement — the kind that makes you linger because you do not want to miss a single detail.

Built in 1924, the Robertson Hotel is an iconic grand manor from another era, with soaring ceilings, deep armchairs and towering Christmas trees shimmering with light. Every staircase, alcove and quiet corner seemed touched by the season.

It did not feel as though Christmas had simply been added to the building. It felt as though Christmas lived there.

Beyond the tall windows, the sky was bright blue and clear, though the Southern Highlands air remained bitterly cold. Inside, firelight cast an amber glow across the walls, and the whole hotel seemed to breathe warmth and happiness.

Our high tea was served in the grand reception hall amid the cheerful murmur of guests. Familiar Christmas melodies, performed by a musician in the room, floated through the air as elegant tiered stands were placed before us on blue linen.

Beautiful Royal Albert china held dainty finger sandwiches, savoury delicacies and festive sweets. Pots of loose-leaf Christmas tea scented the air with cinnamon, cloves and citrus, mingling with the faint trace of woodsmoke.

I wrapped my hands around my teacup and felt its warmth slowly travel through me.

Sitting there beside Peter, surrounded by firelight, music and Christmas sparkle, I felt completely present.

I felt alive.

Every sense seemed sharper — the warmth of the cup, the shimmer of the decorations, the crackle of the fire and the music rising softly through the room. There was joy in every corner, and I could feel myself absorbing it.

Perhaps part of what touched me so deeply was the feeling of a northern Christmas.

Perhaps because of my Finnish roots, the Christmas that lives deepest in me is a winter one — cold and dark outside, but softened by candlelight, glowing windows and warmth within. Christmas in Australia is beautiful in its own way, but here, for one afternoon, the seasons seemed to turn themselves around for me.

In my imagination, the crisp Southern Highlands cold became the winter of a northern Christmas. The fires, spiced tea and old hotel stirred something deeply familiar.

It felt as though a small part of my Nordic soul had recognised itself.

It did not feel like pretending.

It felt like remembering.

The happiness I felt was almost childlike. I kept glancing towards the grand staircase and the glowing trees, noticing new decorations each time. I wanted to hold onto the rich colours, the music, the warmth and the feeling of wonder that seemed to follow me from room to room.

And yet, the more beautiful the afternoon became, the more I thought of others.

I imagined all the people I would have loved to bring there — family and friends who would have delighted in the fires, the music, the grand rooms and the beautiful china. I wanted to say, “You have to see this. You have to feel what this place feels like.”

Some experiences are so lovely that they do not make us want to keep them to ourselves.

They make us want to gather people into them.

Peter and I sat there for a long time, drinking our tea slowly as the bright winter afternoon lingered beyond the tall windows. Every now and then, I looked across at him and felt grateful that we were sharing such an extraordinary afternoon.

For those few hours, life felt incredibly rich.

Not simply because the setting was beautiful, but because I felt so awake to it — the happiness of being there with Peter, the comfort of warmth after cold, the pull of memory and heritage, and the wonder of discovering a place that spoke so directly to my soul.

There are dates we remember because of where we went or what we ate.

And then there are dates that become something more.

They reconnect us with a part of ourselves that daily life can sometimes quieten. They bring the past and present together. They leave us grateful, tender and wonderfully alive.

Our Christmas in July high tea at the Grand Manor was more than an afternoon tea.

It was a northern Christmas feeling discovered in the Australian Highlands.

It was warmth, beauty, memory and love gathered around a table.

And it may just have been my favourite date with Peter of all time.