Slowly, I creep further into the depths of Sherwood Forest. Most of the deciduous trees and are still lifeless, yet to awake from their winter slumber. Suddenly I hear a crack behind me. Alone, I cautiously peer over my shoulder, almost expecting to see the ghost of Robin Hood emerging from the thick undergrowth, a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder. But no, thankfully it's just a branch snapped off a grand old oak tree by an over-enthusiastic cockatoo.
Of course, the chance of Robin Hood haunting here is slim, especially as I'm in the foothills of the Brindabellas, and not in the heroic outlaw's homeland in Nottinghamshire.
