I think my nose must have been about 10 centimetres from the web when Brian shouted at me to stop where I was. I'd been told the webs were hard to spot, but I thought I knew better! One more step would have had me entangled in the lunch net of what was (if Brian was to be believed) a rather nasty spider known as the silvertail - capable of hospitalising a man for two days with a single bite. After a good half-hour trampling around in the bush without a single arachnid to be seen, I had rashly assumed the spider stories were probably just cooked up by Brian to liven up the day. Following my near miss, I decided that maybe it was best to follow along behind him or our Aboriginal guide after all.

I'd been in Australia about two months and having been to my fair share of tourist gift shops, I had seen the ubiquitous didgeridoos pretty much in every shop I'd been into - most of them of dubious quality and questionable authenticity. The only ones I did see that looked like the real McCoy were ludicrously expensive considering the fact they were essentially the termite eaten remains of dead trees with a lick of paint to tart them up! I think I'd just about given up on the idea of buying one when the opportunity presented itself for me to make my own - perfect! Even if I made a complete hash of it, at least it would mean more to me than tacky mass-produced ones that seemed to grace many-a-rucksack of fellow travellers.

So, here I was, in the bush somewhere near a small town called Dingo not a million miles from Rockport on Australia's east coast. I was a little shaken after the rather hair-raising trip from the Namoi Hills cattle station through the dusty red outback (Brian swore that hitting bumps as fast as possible was the best way to deal with them!), but ready to produce my masterpiece!

The parched group of Eucalyptus trees we were wandering around in were, as far as I could tell, about as far from being suitable for making didgeridoos like the ones we had seen back at the station as it was possible. I'd always assumed that the musical instruments were made from the branches of the trees - little did I know we'd be using the entire trunk! Some careful probing (hitting them with a hammer) soon yielded suitable specimens for musical conversion. Brian was clearly in his element getting the trees felled, de-barked, sanded and prepped for decorating - frequently taking over when the amateurs (us) were clearly screwing things up. Brian was an interesting guy - somewhat like a cross between Crocodile Dundee and a sprightly 60-year-old - he'd clearly spent a large part of his life in the outback and seemed to have an intimate knowledge of the flora and fauna (and the many ways in which one could be injured by them!) drawn from years of experience. Our aboriginal guide - a friend of Brian's - was very much the strong and silent type, clearly at home in the bush - almost spookily quiet most of the time, but a comforting presence all the same. According to Brian, the tree we had found for my didge was "a beauty" and should produce a great sound (assuming I could play the thing!). All that was left to do now was to decorate it.

Another spine-jarring thrill ride found us at Brian and Jules' workshop back on the cattle station. From my impressions of Brian, I had expected Jules to be a similar veteran of life in the outback - I couldn't have been further wrong. As it turned out, Jules was a fairly ordinary middle aged British housewife from suburban England whose life had taken an extraordinary turn. She had met Brian whilst on holiday in Oz, fallen for his kindly, rugged charm and never looked back! Jules was very passionate about decorating the didgeridoos - practically bubbling over with enthusiasm. She spoke to us at length about the traditional designs and colours used by the Aboriginal peoples and the symbolism of the different images and patterns used - it was fascinating to find out just how much meaning and history there actually was behind the simple but beautiful designs.

Whilst deciding on our final designs, Jules amused us with stories of previous visitors' artistic efforts - including amongst other things, a Manchester United didge, a bright purple didge with gold stars (to match the girl's bedroom apparently!) and a rainbow didge! In the end I settled on a goanna (a large lizard) for the main motif, and some dots and wavy lines to represent air and sound at either end of my creation. After Jules' detailed description of the traditional decoration methods I was all ready to get stuck in to prepare my authentic paints. I quickly realised that authenticity might not quite be the order of the day when I spotted the tins of emulsion paint! We did have all the traditional colours though: Black (originally from charcoal), white (from clay), red (from the rusty coloured soil of the outback) and finally yellow (from crushed ochre stone). Our methods of application of the paint however were entirely authentic - it is a little known fact that the Aborigines have long been masters of the paint brush, hairdryer and cotton bud! A few hours of sketching, brushing, dabbing and blow-drying later, I stood back to survey my efforts and was enormously surprised! With Jules and Brian's expert guidance I had somehow managed to produce something that looked equally as good if not better than most of the specimens I had seen on sale. All that remained to do now was to let my didgeridoo dry overnight, come back the next day to pick it up and have a quick lesson on how to play it over a few beers.

All in all I think my didge probably cost me about as much as one of the well-made retail ones would have done, but its value to me is infinitely greater because of the memories attached to it and the knowledge that I made it.

All the best souvenirs have stories to tell - mine just makes odd noises.