All the makings of a latent pontist

Aged 66, I figured that I was past the stage of being surprised at myself, being all too familiar with my particular idiosyncrasies, quirks and predelictions. However, as we headed home from Yorkshire, skirting Hull's western suburbs, l was suddenly struck  by a restless excitement, a burgeoning anticipation like a kid gets as Christmas approaches. It was not about the place itself; really it is not possible to get worked up over a place that is only one consonant away from being dull. No, the object of my desire that sent my heart aflutter for most people would seem equally mundane; today after a wait of forty years I would get to drive over the Humber suspension bridge. 

It was only when I tried to figure out why I was so excited that I realised that all my life I had suffered from a hitherto undiagnosed obsession - I love big bridges and have mysterious desire to seek them out. Sydney Harbour, Brooklyn, the Millau and the Rion Antirion viaducts,  Øresund Bron, Storebæltbroan, Lisbon's Ponts 25 de Abril and Vasco de Gama, Clifton suspension bridge, Porto's Ponte Arrabida, the Chesapeake Bay Bridge connecting Maryland to Delaware, the string of underwhelming low bridges that run for a hundred miles from Key Largo to Key West, Spaghetti Junction, Pont du Gard, Pont Tankerville - images of bridges, long, tall, ancient or modern, iconic or overlooked hide in plain sight, bloating the gigabytes of my unsorted photo folders. 

According to the Urban Dictionary there is a name for the bridge obsessed, I am a 'pontist' apparently. Oddly enough I have a sneaky suspicion about the origins of this particular predilection. From the viewpoint of our super connected world my childhood experiences like seem antidiluvian. I was eight before we owned a family car, around the same time we swapped an ancient gramophone from the 1930s for a 'Dansette' record player that could play singles and LPs. It was another five years before we acquired a TV. My world was confined almost entirely to the goings-on in a council estate on the edge of a remote market town in Northumberland. You might think that would result becoming small minded, in fact it had the opposite effect on me, I was an insatiably curious child, as soon as I could read the local library became my second home and I enjoyed newspapers more than comics. I was the stereotypical shy weird kid with curly hair and glasses, Windsor Garden's very own softy Walter!

We did not travel much at all, and when we did it was almost always northwards over the border. My father was a proud Scotsman, every time we drove past the the 'Welcome to Scotland' sign he would repeat the same lame joke, 'What's the only good thing to come out of England?' he would enquire. 'The road to Scotland' the kids in the back would dutifully chorus. 

I suppose because these trips were relatively rare it made them more memorable. At some point in the early 1960s I recall standing on the quay at South Queensferry staring up at the massive towers of the half built Forth Road Bridge. It was probably the first time I had seen such a massive man-made structure. In fact the construction of the bridge must have been a big thing generally. In Mr Cooper's middle juniors class we made a model of it in the craft class, constructed out of string, cardboard and balsa wood, all held together with multi-coloured mapping pins which gave it a surprisingly jolly appearance. Why this resulted in adulthood in a liking for big bridges is a mystery, particularly as I have an equally clear childhood memory of catching the Heart of Midlothian (sister engine of the Flying Scotsman) to Edinburgh, but I didn't become a trainspotter.

Sadly, I missed the opportunity to have lunch while gazing upon the object of my desire, by the time we spotted the sign to the Humber Bridge viewing area we had almost passed it. What I like about big bridges is for all their grandeur their purposeare essentially egalitarian. They don't have designs upon you, their purpose is purely functional - to get you across from one side to the other. This is in marked contrast to other iconic edifices; the awesomeness of cathedrals and temples are designed to impress a divine presence upon you, palaces are essentially oppressive, exuding the megalomania of some potentate or other. Give me the slender simple beauty of a big viaduct anytime!

Our plan for the rest of the day - a short cycle along part of the 'river railway' cycle track that runs between Lincoln and Boston along the banks of the Witham. The Searchforsites app listed the Riverside Inn at  Southrey as a place with a car park that allowed overnight stays. When we arrived we realised that the car park beside the pub was a public one for the trail.

 

Although there were no signs specifically prohibiting overnighting we felt slightly uncomfortable about it. Wild camping in the UK is not really accepted, at the moment the tabloids are full of stories about  irresponsible motorhomers despoiling west country beauty spots. It was still early afternoon, we decided to unload the bikes and pedal about for an hour or two, then head home.

We decided to go east towards Woodhall Spa. The landscape is unspectacular, but beautiful in its own way, a very English scene of ripening cornfields under a big blue sky dotted with white clouds. The track itself was well maintained, popular, but hardly busy. 

The locals were very friendly, willing to chat, or give a wave and a smile as they passed. We decided it was somewhere we should explore further, maybe staying at one of the campsites in Woodhall Spa next time.

The drive back was also unexpectedly pleasurable. Despite being close to home, Lincolnshire is not somewhere we know well, apart from Lincoln itself. In my mind's eye the rest of the county was one big fen punctuated by the chalk ridge of the wolds. We drove west towards Mansfield, skirting Newark and Sleaford on minor roads. Much is the landscape does appear flat, but actually consists of gently sloping escarpments that suddenly drop into small river valleys, with ancient settlements in them. It was like driving through a chapter of Hoskins' 'Making of the English Landscape'. It was peaceful and empty with a palpable sense of a connection between past and present. Hereabouts in the referendum 'Remain' polled its lowest. Of course many things contributed to this outcome, but it is tempting to think the way  sense of Englishness exudes from the landscape itself must have played a part.

We crossed into Notts, heading for the A38 beyond the Mansfield bypass. We passed giant Amazon warehouse and a signpost to a mining museum, back into England as it is, and familiar territory. Sometimes a short break can feel like a big trip in so much as it provides enough disruption to your usual humdrum existence to feel invigorating and sustaining. With long term travel seemingly a distant prospect we need to plan more quick trips, including a return to Lincolnshire.