d=4,6Some dozen or so years ago I was taken on a backstage tour of Durham Cathedral by a friend who was a Canon there.

We were accompanied by another cleric, who rejoiced under the name of Reverend Precentor of the Ecclesiastical Heraditament, or something along those lines. All went well until this benign and solemn gentleman beckoned me to follow him through a small door and I found myself on a narrow ledge hundreds of feet above the high altar. It had a single metal rail around the edge at hip height, which would have been a fairly reassuring sight for Happy, Sleepy or Grumpy, but to me seemed nothing more than a further hazard.

I had always believed that my lungs, heart and other internal organs (I had better not be too specific here) were more or less able to function happily without any significant conscious contribution from me. In a millisecond all that changed. Breathing and staying vertical and AS STILL AS POSSIBLE occupied my immediate horizons. I paid particular attention to the activities of my knees which were insisting that folding up and having a little rest were top of their agenda, please.

I faintly heard my holy buddies deriving great amusement from having led another poor acrophobic to the heights of terror. I have viewed dog collars and their seemingly benign owners with deep suspicion ever since. They take "Closer my God to thee" a little too literally sometimes.

Imagine therefore my delight this week, when I stepped off the plane for my first ever visit down under to be told by my welcoming hosts: "Youre climbing the Sydney Harbour Bridge this arvo, cobber!" (Actually their words were far less obviously Ozzie than that, but why let the truth spoil a good story.)

My initial terror at the prospect was not lessened by the knowledge that my wifes sister and her husband had done it and survived to strut their stuff about it.

How could I face my brother- in-law again if I chickened out? He can already hang a door in the time it would take me to find a sticking plaster after gouging my finger with the screwdriver at the first hinge. Male pride that has caused the downfall (no pun intended) of many a foolhardy man forced me to stammer, "Yeah, great, wow thanks!" whilst my brain was urgently requesting Scotty to beam me up.

But, dear reader, I did it. The first ten minutes was a journey through nightmare to terror. But the climb is meticulously organised. You are attached by cable to the bridge throughout and its as safe as houses (tell that to the wicked witch of the west!).

I even got used to seeing cars between my feet 100 feet below. My knees gradually remembered that they were made of bone and not potty putty; my lungs started to work in the appropriate way. I began to appreciate that I was actually climbing up one of the worlds most famous landmarks.

I am sure I will still decline to lean over the edge of the white cliffs of Dover to see whats going on down below, but I have actually stood on top of the Sydney Harbour Bridge with an intrepid band of Brits and Aussies and the view was simply stunning, like the country itself.

Note to editor do you want a permanent Australian correspondent?