Brand New Bridges

The coastal walk from Hallett Cove Conservation Park to Seacliff hugged the shoreline, meandering through a narrow band of heath between the back yards of seaside mansions and the cliffs above the sea, regularly interrupted by steep narrow gullies where torturous wooden staircases descended to the bottom and climbed breathlessly up the other side.  Not long after I first puffed my way along the Coastal Walk the staircases became so rickety that the council closed them to the public, putting up barrier fences reinforced with metres of bright orange tape and stern signs telling the public not to pass lest they lose their footing and tumble to their demise.

The public ignored the signs and took precarious detours around the tape, determined to walk their dogs and peer in the unshuttered seaward windows of the mansions, as they had always done.  They stumbled dangerously close to the cliff edges to spot seals, have picnics, and watch for whales.

The council put up bigger fences and brought in big machinery. New signs advised everyone that bridges were being built and the public really should stay away. The public, grudgingly mollified by the promise of bridges, obeyed the sign at least when the machinery was working. As to what went on when the council workers went home, well who can say?

 

Rickety staircases before the application of orange tape and 'Keep Out' signs.

 

Enough time passed that the public began to wonder whether the bridges were imaginary, part of a grand hoax to allow construction workers to picnic in the sunshine, happily leaning on shovels while occasionally revving an engine or two, and then the announcement came: the bridges were complete. The coastal walk was open. Not only were the bridges open but the public could Instagram a photo of themselves with a bridge and earn themselves the chance to win exciting (but unspecified) prizes.

Spring showed up for a day, the sun shone, and the public turned out to take photos of themselves on the bridges.  We joined them, starting at sea level in the Hallett Cove Conservation Park.  It was a perfect day for walking beside the sea and looking at brand new bridges.

 

Alas, there were still headlands and gullies to cross to reach the bridges.

The out­stand­ing glacial pave­ments along the north­ern cliff tops are recog­nised as the best record of Per­mi­an glacia­tion in Aus­tralia and have inter­na­tion­al sig­nif­i­cance. This time around they were but a backdrop to the main bridge event.  We power walked past the colourful formations and climbed up to the top of the cliffs. There were still plenty of steps to keep us honest.

Should one feel like extra steps were in order there were plenty of side staircases down to rocky little beaches.

All sorts of people were out on the track, many of whom would never have tackled the boardwalks and remaining steps were it not for the allure of new bridges. The elderly gamely pushed walkers and baulked at slippery gravel; the physically challenged towed a posse of personal carers deliberately and slowly up hill and down dale; packs of children greeted each new clifftop vista with cries of  "Are we there yet? I don't see a bridge!"  We tag-teamed a small boy and his smaller sister, fleeing in delicious terror from their grandparents. "We have nothing to fear!" shrieked little sister as she hurtled pell-mell along the boardwalk, "Except run!"  And off she went. A few intrepid cyclists, not having given the whole thing much thought, gamely lugged bicycles up and down the staircases.

Finally we crested a headland and there, in all its glory, lay the first suspension bridge! We oohed. We aahed. Roger went to great deal of trouble to recreate photographs taken with the old bridge. Teenagers competed to create the biggest bounce as they marched across the deck.

Not being content with just one suspension bridge experience, we carried on along the headland until lo and behold, there was another one, complete with another crowd taking photos and small children bouncing up and down in the middle in somewhat successful attempts to scare their parents.

 

With all the bridge excitement behind us we plodded along past picnickers and families dragging decidedly underwhelmed small children, all the way back to sea level at Seacliff which, counterintuitively, is not on a cliff.

The tide was out.

 We had some lunch, caught the train back to our bicycles, and went home to the dog.  He wasn't the least bit interested in my tales of staircases and suspension bridges.  My resident engineer, on the other hand, went to bed a happy man and no doubt dreamed of suspension bridges all night long.