Free running water under bridges of golden rock, those are the bridges that call us all home in our evening years.
The bridges are marvels of engineering, yet of pale beauty by comparison to our river.
The bridges of the county are hewn from granite in our mountains. They have stood strong for generations, linking the folks in these parts, giving the sweetest of spots for romance and reunions.
I have sat at the rivers edge, a stone in hand, and wondered what it would take to build a bridge. For in this village we have many that carry us over the network of rivers, built in the time when horses and bicycles were the fastest way to get around.
Though the seasons changed the bridges remained the same, only made different by the sunlight or the dappling effect of the clouds. The grass waned in the winter and came back strongly every spring, as did the leaves and the new birds. Beneath it the river swelled and declined, so shallow in late August that the local children would wade right across it just to feel the cooling effect of the water.
The bridges were the pride of the region, great arcs of stone that defied gravity. Seen from over the valley they were a sign of home to all that lived and loved that dale.
The sight of the bridge was a hand upon my shoulder, a sweet palpable relief.