The Sunday Times How far can you fly before you start coming back? And what do you find when you get there? Why A A Gill towed a dead possum around Tasmania
There are places that look like old England and there are places that look like nowhere else on Earth. Tasmania has a rainforest that has an elemental, speechless beauty. Rainforests around the rest of the world are smelly, soggy, dank and deeply disappointing. Tasmania’s cool, temperate forest is a great buttressed and hammer-beamed cathedral to the green gods, to Gaia and Puck. Everywhere you look, it has composed itself into artful vistas or Titania’s boudoir. The canopy is made of huge, slow-growing eucalyptus, blue, red, grey, yellow, white. Some of the tallest trees in the world are here, the celery-top pines, pencil pines, leatherwoods, myrtle beech, sassafras, pepperbush, wattles and tree ferns, and on the ground a velvet carpet of bright lichen and moss. The variety of green stuff beggars the English woodland. This is some of the oldest living landscape in existence. I want to believe this is as close to the primeval forest as we can ever get. If that isn’t genetically true, it is spiritually and emotionally. If you travelled here for nothing else, you should see this forest: it’s the stillness that’s so gorgeous and unnerving. A huge, silent library of greenness. Things do live here, lots of things, but none of them say anything.
Also, New York Times:
The Power of Green
