It has been many years since I last thought about the bridge. Recently, on a nostalgic journey to my childhood home, I wandered across the dew-laden grass in search of that bridge to another world. Sadly all traces have been obliterated; by time, and floods, and willows that grow and wither only to be replaced by others.
The bridge was narrow with rails on either side, rails that I thought were old railway lines until corrected. I have been informed they were constructed from timber, three by three inch lengths. No photos appear to have been taken, and while many of us remember the bridge, few of us have the same recollections.
The bridge was wooden with many gaping holes in its decking. I disliked walking across the bridge and resorted to crawling on hands and knees past the holes through which the dank dark waters of the lagoon beckoned with their livestock of slippery slimy eels lurking in the shadows. I did not relish the thought of falling through the holes and gashing my limbs on the way down as numerous cross branches of willows created a natural barrier through which it was possible to fall only to land in shallow water that barely moved over the muddy bottom.
While no one was able to accurately pinpoint the reason for the construction of this pathway to the other side it is generally presumed that my father and uncle had a hand in the enterprise. These men of a similar age combined their do-it-yourself talents several times over many years to build tracks and bridges and huts, none of which would find their way into the house of the year, or the bridge of the year competition, but all of which were solid and dependable in construction and eminently well suited for the task they were intended.
On a fine day the bridge emitted a golden ambience as dappled sunlight shone through willow leaves, and combined with the call of tuis and bellbirds and the occasional flash of a wood pigeon as it swished overhead, it oozed character. I am sad no remnants remain. I am sad that so few have memories of that wooden structure. On a cold day I never ventured near.
The bridge was narrow with rails on either side, rails that I thought were old railway lines until corrected. I have been informed they were constructed from timber, three by three inch lengths. No photos appear to have been taken, and while many of us remember the bridge, few of us have the same recollections.
The bridge was wooden with many gaping holes in its decking. I disliked walking across the bridge and resorted to crawling on hands and knees past the holes through which the dank dark waters of the lagoon beckoned with their livestock of slippery slimy eels lurking in the shadows. I did not relish the thought of falling through the holes and gashing my limbs on the way down as numerous cross branches of willows created a natural barrier through which it was possible to fall only to land in shallow water that barely moved over the muddy bottom.
While no one was able to accurately pinpoint the reason for the construction of this pathway to the other side it is generally presumed that my father and uncle had a hand in the enterprise. These men of a similar age combined their do-it-yourself talents several times over many years to build tracks and bridges and huts, none of which would find their way into the house of the year, or the bridge of the year competition, but all of which were solid and dependable in construction and eminently well suited for the task they were intended.
On a fine day the bridge emitted a golden ambience as dappled sunlight shone through willow leaves, and combined with the call of tuis and bellbirds and the occasional flash of a wood pigeon as it swished overhead, it oozed character. I am sad no remnants remain. I am sad that so few have memories of that wooden structure. On a cold day I never ventured near.
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