Writers have to live in the world. But in order to build worlds, we first must disappear.

Only a two-hour train ride from Sydney, Osborn House is super accessible for the non-car havers and Passenger Princesses among us (myself included). I roll my cream coloured suitcase from Bundanoon’s tiny high street, towards the property, only a short walk from the train station. I breathe in the sharp scent of eucalyptus, as mist settles on the surrounding tall gum trees.

I arrive at the reception. I’m handed a glass of rosé while I wait for my cabin to be ready. I had planned to finish the final proofread of my debut book Juicy during this four-day writing retreat, part of my prize for winning the Judge’s Choice in the 2025 RUSSH Literary Showcase. Instead, all I want to do is sink into the outdoor bathtub and stare into the trees. I feel cocooned by the rolling hills and sweeping bushland.

Day 1

My body folds with relief when I walk into my little lodge, my sanctuary. The cabin sits at the edge of the forest, its timber-panelled walls smelling faintly of cedar. Inside, every whim is catered to – calming interior design with cosy vintage rugs, and a wood fire that’s ready to light, low golden lighting. The terrace deck has a freestanding bathtub overlooking Morton National Park. I’m not sure how productive I’m going to be.

I’m feeling anxious about opening up my manuscript. Something tells me I can’t do it. I stand up to look out on the terrace and gasp. There are ten kangaroos right outside my cabin, munching on the grass. They’re so close I’m only a few steps away. The way they’re positioned, it feels like they’re only here for me. A friend texts me that kangaroos symbolise strength and forward movement. I take it as a sign to charge forward.

The shower has a rain-head, water falling in a broad, warm curtain that makes me forget I’m indoors.

The shower has a rain-head, water falling in a broad, warm curtain that makes me forget I’m indoors. I cleanse the stress away, get ready, then head up to dinner at Fire Kitchen, the traditional Argentinian live fire cooking asado restaurant. I sip the house martini to start, while one of the waiters recommends various dishes and encourages me to go outside and watch the cooking on the fire. Out comes woodfired flatbread with ajillo butter, free range chook al carbon, and charred corn on the cob with togarashi. Belly full, I stroll back to my cabin to sleep with the retractable roof open and marvel at the sparkling stars.

Day 2

I start the day how all days should start: with pancakes. Specifically with vanilla cream, macerated berries, cultured butter and maple syrup, with starters of bircher muesli, fresh fruit and pastries. Back at the cabin, I do some writing, while wistfully staring at the shroud of mist rolling in outside. Soon (a little too soon) it’s time for a bubble bath. The steam from the bath meets the haze. The mist is misting. It’s giving Wuthering Heights. It feels as if Jacob Elordi is close by. I submerge and try to let go.

I start the day how all days should start: with pancakes. Specifically with vanilla cream, macerated berries, cultured butter and maple syrup, with starters of bircher muesli, fresh fruit and pastries.

The hotel has organised lunch for me but I ask to postpone it, since I have to keep writing. Still at the lodge, I feel like lighting my first fire. I’ve never done it before – the passenger-princess-to-never-starting-a-fire pipeline is real. Luckily, the hotel makes it super easy with the firestarter ready to go. I still panic that I’ve done it wrong, or that the fire is too wild. I take photos and send it to a group chat saying, "Is this fire okay or is it going to burn the place down?" and they reply, "How have you never lit a fire before?"

I reward myself with a negroni, using the need for an ice bucket as my excuse to call staff for help with my first foray into fire starting, because I am now worried I’ve done it wrong. The manager of the property is patient, well versed with fires. He literally opens it and puts his hand in without fear, while I squeal. He reassures me that it’s a good blazing fire and I have nothing to worry about. I beam triumphant.

I’m about to settle down and finish responding to my editor’s proofread queries, when I get a call from a guy I used to date once in 2021. He says he’s just checking in. I tell him I’m on deadline and can’t talk. He says it won’t take long, only 10 minutes. Three and a half hours later, I hang up the phone, shaking my head. Do they have a sixth sense for when you’re finally at peace and in your solitude? I have no other choice but to stay up most of the night poring over my manuscript, while the air outside whips up into a comforting frenzy.

Day 3

Breakfast this time is the smashed avocado with a poached egg. The produce is fresh. The portions are generous. I return to my laptop to try and finish my manuscript, before heading back to the restaurant for the hotel’s lunch. I look like a zombie, but I’m brought back to life with the classic, elite girl’s lunch – a caesar salad, fries and a diet coke and a martini. I tap away on my laptop, brows furrowed, suddenly doubting every word I’ve used. I go back to the room and lie on the bed, the retractable roof letting the sunlight in, I frantically scan and accept and type and nod and add my notes and then finally I’m done. I send it back to my editors.

It’s time to go lie in the Forest Bathing Deck and exhale. Available only to the lodge guests, you book in and have the whole deck to yourself.

It’s time to go lie in the Forest Bathing Deck and exhale. Available only to the lodge guests, you book in and have the whole deck to yourself. Walking through the clearing towards it, I can still hear the soulful music playing in the hotel in the distance. The forest sounds - birds twerking, cicadas buzzing, jostling leaves – bring me back to earth. The jacuzzi hot tub tempts with water that looks like whisky. A tiny frog clings to the sides, hugging the walls. Plunging into the ice bath, my fried nervous system cools down. I cycle between them, the little cabin-like sauna and the fire pit, grateful for the solitude and comfort of the forest. Eventually I wander back down to the pool and spa. I try not to think about the book and my dwindling bank account. The starving artist trope is too real.

In the spa I make friends with a gorgeous Mexican couple who regale me with stories of their travels. I tell them about my book and about this story. They perk up and want to tell me how the design of the space reminded them of Soho House. They soon discover that it’s actually by the same designer – Vicky Charles. We chat for a while longer. It’s comforting to have both the option of being alone and dipping into a little retreat community.

At dinner, back at George’s, the hotel restaurant where we have breakfast. I order a kir royale, blackcurrant bubble concoction. The staff go above and beyond. Everyone I’ve encountered is so generous and attentive to every need. I ask one of the waiters what I should order. I mention I’m craving pasta, and without skipping a beat, he recommends the vodka rigatoni - a glossy, rich, creamy tomato sauce, clinging to each tube of fresh al dente rigatoni and topped with parmesan. It hits multiple spots.

I wander back to my little sanctuary. It’s important on a writing retreat to actually retreat. On the way I see some rabbits, and whisper to them that I come in peace. They bounce away, perhaps on a hopping retreat of their own. Manuscript edits finished (for now), I feel a little more free. I take a night bath, pump the bubbles and salts, pour some wine and open the book I’ve brought with me - Madonna in a Fur Coat. With the blackout curtains and only the stars piercing through the open roof, I sink into sleep.

Day 4

I am almost skipping and bouncing on day four, not wanting this time to end. Breakfast is fried Musset Farm eggs on Moonacre’s toast with tomato, kale, bacon and mushrooms. I book in another forest bathing sesh like a seasoned regular. Afterwards, I lounge by the pool with a rhubarb spritz. I take yet another outdoor bath. I move from one body of water to the next. A final dinner at George’s. I order the tomato burrata entree and discover what they bill as the ‘tomato chip’, straddling the burrata on all sides, like a fortress. The existence of a ‘tomato chip’ is a revelation - a caramelised slice of tomato, crisp at the edges. My life will never be the same again. There is a time before Tomato Chip and a time after Tomato Chip, and I know which world I want to live in.

Afterwards, I lounge by the pool with a rhubarb spritz. I take yet another outdoor bath.

By the final afternoon, I finally allow myself to feel accomplished that the book is almost done. The hotel staff, who have watched me come in and out of the hermit writer realm, are thrilled and congratulate me. I close my laptop and step outside into the cold Highlands air. The kangaroos from day one, are now a distant memory, having served their role. The mist has lifted. For four days, I turned the volume down on the loudness of the world, hurtling by in the Year of the Fire Horse, retreated into the work I am called to do, met likeminded curious souls, felt the earth beneath my feet, floated in warm waters that cradled me and somehow felt an ending take place for my book – ushering in a new beginning.

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