Those are my principles, and if you don't like them... well, I have others.

Bridge over ~~troubled~~ reasonably placid water. Richmond. February 2012.

This Watery Wednesday to the almost-still Coal River in Richmond (a far cry from the raging torrent that we visited back in June last year). Yet is not so much the water as the bridge itself that has got me thinking...

It says something about a country when your oldest bridge still in use - the heritage listed Richmond Bridge - only dates back to 1825. As you can see on the bridge itself, the foundation stone was laid in 1823 and the thing itself was constructed using convict labour (the sandstone was quarried nearby and hauled to the site using hand carts) until it eventual completion one hundred and eighty-seven years ago. All this is a far cry from some of those other bridges that you might have visited, like the Kapellbrücke (1333), the Charles Bridge (1357), Si-o-se Pol (1602), or the good-as-new Alcántara Bridge (106) [!!!]

All of a sudden, 1823 doesn't quite seem that far away.

Comments

smudgeon said…

I remember when I first popped overseas, I stayed in a house that was built in the 14th century. Even Pont Neuf, a young'un by European standards, is more than twice as old as Richmond Bridge.

Not knocking Tassie, of course, but I think on the whole, we could do with a bit of perspective.

21 March 2012 at 13:46

Kris McCracken said…

We can get a bit silly at times...

25 March 2012 at 16:36

If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral

Zeal, n. A certain nervous disorder afflicting the young and inexperienced. A passion that goeth before a sprawl.

Here I have tried my hand at the homemade sepia-toned photo. I wasn’t happy with the way that the sun had washed out some of the colours in the original, so had a bit of a fiddle because I like the look on Henry’s face, and didn’t want to pass on posting it. I have a tip for those of you burdened with the great, unceasing weight of parenthood. I have a new recipe, in the vein of the quick microwaved chocolate cake . Get this, microwaved potato chips . I gave them a run on Sunday, Henry liked the so much I did it again last night. Tonight, I shall be experimenting with sweet potato. I think that the ground is open for me to exploit opportunities in the swede, turnip, carrot and maybe even explore in the area of pumpkins. Radical, I know. I’m a boundary-pusher by nature. It's pretty simple, take the potato. Slice it thinly (it doesn't have to be too thin, but thin enough). Lay the slices on the microwave plate, whack a bit of salt over the top and nuke the buggers for five minut

This will hurt me...

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