Ahead the forest trees are thinner, a clearing perhaps or a glade? As we draw closer we can see that it is neither. The firm ground gives way to a marsh of tall reeds, the soil submersed in water. The autumn sunlight falls directly onto a tree trunk, likely felled for just this purpose, a bridge. There is no hand rail, nothing to steady oneself. The drop isn't dangerous, just one hell of a messy landing. With one careful boot I test the bark. It's damp with a smattering of moss, likely the sunrays keep the worst of it off. It isn't too slippery, but it's no concrete sidewalk. It's has a girth of about three arm spans, yet the top is still curved. Time to take a deep breath and just go- eyes on my feet and the next half metre of tree, arms raised like a tightrope walker. Steady. Steady. One footfall at a time until the other bank appears.