Well, I was right,. The little village bridge is now a memory and a gaping slash in the landscape has taken its place. Big machines sit hungrily around and our merry, historic stream is confined to a metal pipe. From the size of the gap there must be big ambitions for the replacement crossing. This is just one week’s work and there are seven more weeks to go.
Dump trucks whiz down the road along with snorting transports hauling yet more giant diggers and such on their trailers. Except for these privileged monsters, the road is closed. It makes a perfect bike rural bike jaunt where I can ride right down the middle of the pavement and weave recklessly back and forth across the centre line all I want. A glorious break from hugging the shoulder and hoping to survive.
Too bad I can’t just whiz on over the bridge.