4pm. Walking along the banks of the Ovens river. There have been bushfires in the mountains and all day a smokey haze has hung like mist.

But now it catches the slanting light, throwing a gossamer net of magic down the aisle of trees. Catching a glimpse of faerie here would not surprise.

The other world is held back by the sounds of a father and son who have dumped their mountain bikes at the river’s edge and now whoop and curse as they throw large rocks into the stream.