A lot of the trees we passed were warped out of shape in quite extraordinary ways -some were bent around on themselves, others were apparently two separate trunks growing out of the ground which suddenly merged into one higher up. One tree even looked as through it has been deliberately bent by a giant, growing perfectly straight for a couple of metres before suddenly going off at exactly forty-five degrees and growing sideways for another metre before bending upward again to carry on as though nothing had happened. Many trees were covered in moss so that it was impossible to see the bark at all, others had huge collections of fungi growing right out of them in circular rings which made their way up the trunk as though providing steps for woodland creatures to climb. Even the fallen trees were interesting, many being completely covered in moss and hollowed out to provide homes for the things we could hear scampering through the foliage. Bruce would point out the most ancient trees, some of which were over four hundred years old, and at one point there was actually a wooden barrier and boardwalk around a particular one with little benches on which we could sit to admire it. We came across this unexpectedly man made oasis in the heart of the forest quite suddenly, and took the chance to take a rest and get out our water bottles. Bruce explained that we were looking at the tallest tree in the forest, and there was even a little sign post stuck into the ground at the base which read "the tallest hardwood tree on Earth?". I'd like you to take particular note of the interesting use of a question mark there. I also assume that what distinguishes this giant eucalypt from the aforementioned El Grande, which had both been discovered and destroyed by the time we went on this tour, was that El Grande was not only impressively tall but also well endowed in the girth department. No jokes please. The people who study these things often like to make pointless distinctions between "largest" and "tallest", partly to confuse those of us who don't know what we're talking about, but mainly so that they can argue with each other about who's got the biggest one over lunch. Arborists don't get out much.

In places, we would pass through small patches of forest where the trees were scorched and lacking any leaves, the branches brittle and dead and pointing out at strange angles. These were the results of small localised fires, perhaps controlled, but it was eerie to see sections like this surrounded by towering eucalypts and otherwise perfectly healthy forest. I was particularly taken by the huge tree ferns which appeared to be growing everywhere, their fronds tightly rolled into balls awaiting the moment when they could unfurl. Ironically, I have always thought that tree ferns are at their most spectacular when the fronds are curled up rather than open, but Bruce suggested that, if we were able to come back every day and take a photo so that we could see them slowly open up we would truly be able to understand the majesty of the forest. At least, that's what he clearly meant from the obvious excitement in his voice - but he was Australian so instead he just called us "guys" a couple of times and suggested that it would be "cool"

At lunchtime, after exploring the forest for some time, we reached the banks of the River Styx, a place which I had been looking forward to seeing as it shares its name with the legendary river in Greek mythology which separates Earth from Hades. I'm a little surprised that the Tasmanian tourist industry - what there is of it - doesn't make more of this, to be honest. The Styx, so says the legend, circles the underworld nine times and is watched over by the hooded skeletal boatman Charon who ferries the dead across to hell where they get to meet Cerberus, the three headed dog that guards the gates. Dying certainly wasn't a simple thing in ancient times! In traditional Greek burials, an Obol (a small coin) was placed in the mouth of the deceased so that they would be able to pay Charon for passage across the river. At school, I was always fascinated by these ancient beliefs and stories and just a little annoyed when my favourite lesson, Classical Studies, in which we learned all about the classical gods and heroes such as Zeus and Hercules, was abolished because somebody in a position of authority and with no head for classical literature decided one day that it served no purpose. Right or wrong, this decision denied me the opportunity to discover more about the world of legends while I was at school - not to mention the chance to sit on by backside twice a week listening to a teacher telling us stories of myth and magic and wishing every day was like this - and led me to take a keen interest later in life when I could choose what I wanted to know about rather than being told what I should know. In my warped little teenage mind, I always wanted to meet Charon, who pronounced the C in his name with a "Shh" sound, and ask him why the most feared boatman of the underworld had a girls name. I also wanted to know what happened if your relatives didn't like you much and decided not to bother putting a coin in your mouth to pay him with - did that mean that you had to stand on this side of the Styx for eternity, not even considered worthy of getting into hell? I used to do a lot of thinking along those lines back in my school days. I didn't get out much.

The River Styx, at the heart of Tasmania's Styx Valley, turned out to be almost every bit as eerie and romanticised as I could've hoped - although, to be honest, it probably benefited from not having rows of dead people lining up to cross it. The forest around the Styx Valley already has a certain fairytale quality to it, with some of the largest trees in the world stretching up into the sky through the canopy and many areas which would be in darkness if it weren't for the occasional trickle of light filtering through the leaves high above and shining onto a patch of mushrooms as though inviting visitors to look for fairies. Stumbling suddenly across the River Styx, a fast flowing narrow stretch of water in which fallen trees create tiny waterfalls and the forest all around creates eerie patches of light and shadow, completes the picture and makes you feel as though you've entered a world that time has forgotten and in which anything is possible. On the bank of the river, Bruce opened the cooler which he had been carrying with him and surprised us by producing an entire picnic lunch - so we sat by the waters edge on whatever came to hand, whether it was a handy log or a smooth piece of rock, and helped ourselves to drinks and sandwiches while we chatted about Tasmania and the Styx Valley. At one point, another young couple sauntered through and greeted us casually, looking at our picnic enviously as they passed, but those were the only other people we saw all day. Just after lunch, wandering along the river bank, I came across a spot which looked as though it would make a particularly good photograph and stepped out, perhaps somewhat naively, onto a fallen tree which spanned the river. For a few steps, all went according to plan, but then my foot suddenly went straight through the rotted trunk and my left leg sank almost up to my knee in the mud beneath. For some reason, Eloise and Bruce found this very funny, particularly when the remainder of our walk in the forest was accompanied by squelching sounds from my boots.

Returning to the car, we found it still sitting in one piece by the side of the road, which I supposed either meant that we had been very lucky or that drivers in Tassie have very quick reactions. After yakking on excitedly about how beautiful the Styx Valley was all the way back, not realising at that stage about the danger looming over Tasmania's remaining forests from the logging industry, we were dropped off outside the front of the Pickled Frog where we rushed inside to sit on the bed and look over the video. Tasmania, alas, marked the end of our second trip to the land down under - but we weren't too unhappy at this stage as the next stage of our journey would mark the start of a new adventure - we were heading for the other land down under, New Zealand, which neither of us knew much about at all. We had a bunch of recommendations regarding places we absolutely must see that had been given to us by Eloise's mum, who had already been there and of whom we had both been incredibly envious whenever she shared her stories of beautiful fjords and gigantic lakes surrounded by lush forests. Eloise and I had hopped across to New Zealand briefly on our previous trip, after a stop in Fiji, but had only had a few days and as such had simply rocketed along the coast, totally bypassing the North Island and doing nothing other than heading straight for the whale watching capital of the country at Kaikoura. This time, we were going to be spending a month there, which is why I will be devoting an entire book to the subject at a later date and why this paragraph is designed clearly to wind you up and plug another of my projects! For now we return to my original world tour where Eloise and I were flying from Australia straight out to Fiji - after a month of mad dashing around Australia, we were more than ready for a touch of Polynesian island life!

About Simon and Burfords Travels:

Simon Burford is a UK based travel writer. He will be re-publishing his travel blogs, chapters from his books and other miscellaneous rantings on these pages over the coming weeks and months, and the entry on this page may not necessarily reflect todays date.