It’s a simple wooden bridge, anchored into the riverbed on six sturdy jarrah trunks. It carries Trevena Road across the mighty Preston River – long may it flow proud and free, although I visited prior to the recent rains and the stream was not exactly being asked to exercise its full franchise.
The little purple flowers, whatever they’re called, were everywhere, though, and I hopped a fence and jumped a gully to find myself in a field of them.
Just then a beautiful old Fairlane came to a stop before the bridge and from it stepped the owner of the land upon which I was trespassing. Luckily this was the woman I had come to see.
At least, she’s the owner for now, but she might not be for long: the council wants to take the strip of land on which those flowers were growing to put in a new road and bridge because of worries a load limit may have to be placed on it in the future.
The bridge seems perfectly sound. I jumped up and down on it and it appeared perfectly solid to me. The owner of the land on either side of the road – Susan Learmonth, she of the Fairlane – has had the bridge examined and it passes muster.
It is also extremely picturesque. I don’t know if its complete suitability to its beautifully bucolic surroundings somehow enhances the aura of its solidity – the timbers confer a hewn masculinity to its shouldering of the span – but you couldn’t imagine a different bridge being there than this perfect little old-fashioned handmade jarrah country road bridge.
We had wanted to do a story on it, but for one reason or another we let it get away, sadly as stories do from time to time, but anyway, and luckily, you’ve been able to read about it elsewhere.
There is, as always, a bit more to the story, or at least some details that stick in memory. Susan had called to tell me about the bridge and then we met and after we’d finished stamping our feet on the bridge in frustration we began talking about how we came to be there above the river that day. Neither of us are from around here originally: she from San Francisco and me from Wagin via Japan.
On hearing that last details, Susan told me about her father and how he taught himself Japanese before the war. He enlisted and ended up translating for McArthur.
“So there you have it,” she said, “You never know who’s at the end of a country road.”
Indeed you don’t – the daughter of McArthur’s translator on a bridge in Donnybrook. It’s a line I’ve stolen and dined out on. Shameless, yes, as I confessed to Susan.
Out of the crooked timber of humanity, said Kant, no straight thing was ever made. Hand-hewn bridges may be able to get away with it, the evident quality of the workmanship seasoning with age like the wood itself as with this example on Trevena Road, but perhaps Ms Learmonth is just a kooky bridge-hugger?
Having met her, she is decidedly not a cranky eccentric, but good luck to anyone who is: cranky eccentrics have always played an important part in human society and god knows there is ample evidence of their growing role in public and political life.
I hope the council’s concern about the load limit doesn’t suggest trucks will be using Trevena. It’s a wonderfully picturesque road and kids walk home along it from the bus on the main road.
And it seems like a lot of money to spend on a new bridge when the bridge that is there seems perfectly good.
The issue of the appropriation of land is only getting more contentious in the South West as people fear an inability to veto oil and gas mining, and it’s not a good thing to have here. I wish there was a way Susan could just swap the council for the land they want so that the existing road and bridge could be her driveway straight up to her house and the council could put the new road and bridge in as they want to.
Not ideal, perhaps, but the loss of this bridge would be a great shame.
In the meantime, people, like bridges, have load ratings, too.
– Jeremy Hedley
