The morning of 7 February at Cottlesbridge, just south of the line of the most devastating bushfire in Australian history, and where our family has lived on 20 acres for the past 26 years, was baking hot but also relatively still. Before midday a ferocious northerly wind had blown up. The premier and the fire and emergency chiefs had warned that this day would be unlike any other in the history of the state. It was clear by now that they were right. The threat of bushfire was in everyone’s mind. If fire came within 25 or 30 kilometres, my wife and I intended to leave immediately with our menagerie of four cats and a dog. We are close to the Kinglake–Hurstbridge Road, five minutes from the supposed safety of the outer suburban fringe.