The Ashton Bridge

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Photo: Nina Martin

When I heard on the radio they were going to build a new bridge over the Cogmans River at Ashton, and that it would be the first tied arch design to be constructed in South Africa, I looked at my wife and said, “That sounds interesting.”

“What is a tied arch bridge?”

“Never heard of it before. My knowledge of bridge designs does not extend beyond suspension, truss, cantilever, and ordinary arch bridges.”

“You are forgetting our bridge at Uilkraal, the beam bridge, the oldest and simplest design of all.”

“Oh, yes. Like a tree trunk over a stream. And rope bridges are another example of early technology.”

“Yes, but a rope bridge is a form of suspension bridge.”

“Hmm.” I could see she knew just as much, if not more, about bridge design as I did. “Well, we will have to do some research if we want to know what’s so great about a tied arch bridge.”

This is what we came up with:

A tied arch bridge is a structural form that combines elements of both arch and suspension bridges. It features an arch rib on either side of the roadway, connected by a horizontal tie beam at the bottom, which supports the bridge deck. This design allows for efficient load distribution and offers several advantages in terms of construction and aesthetics.

“They are going to use a transverse launching method, which sounds quite mind-blowing,” I told her. “It means building the new bridge alongside the old one, which will be demolished to make way for the 800-ton structure that will be dragged sideways into place. Amazing, hey?”

This was back in 2019, two years before the project was due for completion. We agreed to follow progress and attend the opening. Well, that was the intention, but circumstances changed and we did not make it. However, it remained on the bucket list and we finally found time to undertake the expedition in October of this year, 2024.

Guy was down from Joburg on a two-week visit, having had to leave his wife behind on account of work commitments, which was a pity, but at least it freed him up to do a considerable amount of maintenance work on the parental abode. We chose a Wednesday so that Nina and Anthony could join us on the family outing, and the five of us set off in our trusty 1998 Toyota Venture just after 9.30.

I had promoted the trip as a wonderful opportunity to enjoy a drive through scenic and varied countryside in order to view a unique example of how modern technology and aesthetics can combine to produce a work of functional beauty. The first part of this spiel lived up to the hyperbole, as it was a fine Spring day with a clear sky and mild temperatures, and the changing scenery was a delight to behold.

“You know,” I said at one stage of the journey, “I have been looking at some of Anna’s photography books, and it strikes me that colour is a distraction, and black and white is better able to capture the essence of a scene. Take that ruined farm building we just passed. Photographers like David Goldblatt and Walker Evans would have been able to get us to think about the history of the building, and what had led to it being abandoned and falling into decay.”

“Why can’t that be done with colour?” Nina, who was driving, said. “I don’t agree. Colour can be just as powerful. It’s composition that makes an exceptional picture, whether in colour or black and white.”

Also keen photographers, the other two millennials concurred with her.

“That old house made me think of Walter Meyer,” Krystyna, who was in the front passenger seat, said. “It’s just the sort of building he painted, and he would have made it look as stark and forlorn as a Goldblatt photo, only in colour.”

It seemed like they all thought I was on the wrong track. A little miffed, I thought of saying something provocative about the monotonously pretty countryside we were travelling through, and pointing out how predictably picturesque it was, but we were entering the lovely little town of Bonnievale, and I got distracted.

We trundled through the streets, admiring the unpretentious nineteenth and early twentieth century architecture and enjoying the peaceful atmosphere of a country dorp, and then made our way over the mountain to our destination. Anthony and I were in the second row, while poor old guy was sitting sideways in the dogbox.

As we entered Ashton, we caught our first sight of the bridge, and it certainly wasn’t a disappointment. The simple elegance of the gleaming white arches immediately convinced me that we were looking at a work of art. We passed over the bridge, Nina parked in front of some shops, and we all got out, eager to take a closer look.

was an information board that gave the background story to what had necessitated the whole enterprise, and furnished some interesting facts about the construction process. Kryś read it to me and then we walked the 60 metres along the pedestrian pathway to the centre of the bridge. I know it was 60 because the info board had said the span was 120 metres. We looked down at the gently flowing stream as it made its way through reeds and fern-covered banks.

“It’s hard to believe this could become a huge river, flooding the whole valley. But those pictures of the old bridge being submerged is proof of what is possible. It would be an awesome experience to stand here and watch that massive body of water flowing at speed just a few metres beneath our feet.”

“As TS Eliot pointed out,” I said,” the river is a strong brown god, implacable.
Keeping his seasons and rages, destroyer, reminder
of what men choose to forget.”

“Look, there’s Guy and Nina and Anthony checking out the underside of the bridge. Let’s walk to the end, and then come back and join them.”

It was at the far end of the arch that I received a kick in the groin. On the pristine white concrete somebody had sprayed graffiti. Crude black letters spelling a name or an obscenity, and some random shapes and scrawls. Appalled, all I could say was, “Fuck, no!”

“Hopefully, they can clean it off.”

We walked back and followed a rough path down towards the river. The young people were under

the bridge taking pictures and, as we made our way towards them over the rough ground, I again felt

a surge of dismay. Scattered about beneath the ribbed deck was the usual rubbish associated with

all open places in South Africa (and most of the world) that offer shelter from the sun and the rain.

Plastic bags and containers, broken bottles, cooldrink cans, some filthy rags.

Guy joined us. “It looks like people could be living over there on the other side.” He was pointing his Nikon and zooming in. He showed me the image that had captured five young men sitting in a group. “I wonder what they’re smoking?”

We made our way back to the parking area, where Anthony was standing before a monumental

locomotive reading the plaque. This relic from the days of steam is a historical reminder that

The town of Ashton is named after Job Ashton, the railway engineer and director of the New Cape Central Railways (Ltd). The town was established in 1897 on the Roodewal farm, and was originally a trading post that became a railway station after the completion of the railway line from Worcester to the coast in 1887.

We gathered around the iron monster, marvelling at its size and trying to imagine, and in the case of us two oldies, actually remember what it was like to take a train drawn by just such a puffing billy. True to form, Guy climbed as high as he could and stood atop the huge black boiler, and I hoisted myself up into the open cab. So this was where the driver and stoker worked. This must have been one hell of a tough life, I thought.

“Jesus, what’s that smell?” I asked. Guy had just climbed aboard.

“Shit.” He pointed to the coal chute behind us. “People have been using this as a toilet. Maybe out of necessity, or possibly as a political statement.”

“Fucking human beings!” I snarled as I returned to terra firma as fast as my arthritic joints permitted, the stench having taken up residence in my nostrils.

“People are disgusting,” my wife agreed, as she sprayed sanitizer on my hand. “I hope you haven’t got anything on your shoes.”

It was time for lunch. We piled into the Venture and continued on Route 62 through the Cogmanskloof Pass to Montagu, which turned out to be nothing like my memory of it from forty years ago. The streets were tree-lined and there was evidence of gentrification everywhere. Very pleasant, very bucolic, and oh so generic. Just like Macgregor, and Greyton, and Napier, and Stanford. The well-heeled retirees and the larnies who could afford a country retreat had booted out the real people who used to live there, and colonised the place.

We chose a shady spot to stop and eat our sandwiches. There was a low-level bridge over a gurgling stream just a little way down the road and it seemed we had the place to ourselves. How wrong we were!

“Did you see how that hoity-toity bitch glared at us?” Nina, who was munching on her homemade cheese, ham and tomato sandwich, was referring to the fortyish woman in a Pajero who had been obliged to pull up behind us in order to allow an oncoming vehicle to pass.

“I bet she would love the cops to have us poor whites run out of town,” said Anthony.

It became apparent that most of the traffic consisted of SUV’s driven by women accompanied by children, which meant we were parked on a regular school route.

“Now for the beer tasting,” Guy said, having finished his nartjie. “Google says Route 62 Brewery is just two blocks away.”

It looked more like a restaurant than a brewery. There was one man at the bar talking to two of the staff, but otherwise we were the only patrons. The waitress, who had an open face and shapely figure, brought three trays of the six tasters. After sipping all six brews we were unanimous in judging the stout to be excellent. Opinion was divided about the others, but none were condemned outright.

When all of the eighteen little glasses had been drained, I would have been happy to depart. Not so fast, old man. The three of them ordered a pint of their chosen draught, insisting that this is what you do at a beer tasting. Oh, well, I thought, when I was their age I, too, would not have been averse to be feeling mildly inebriated on leaving a licensed premises.

I enjoyed the ride back. The afternoon was advancing and the countryside looked different, now that the sun was coming at it from the west. The glare had gone and shadows were developing and softening the texture of the landscape. I was reminded of the time before we were married, when Kryś and I took a trip to South West Africa. I had particularly liked the mellow feeling that came over me while heading north, the sun going down on our left, she at the wheel, while I relaxed with a glass of Bols brandy and water. Yes, very mellow and carefree. Just as I was thinking this, Guy spoke from the dogbox.

“Anyone like to try some Muscadel?”

He had bought local liquor from one of the shops where we had parked in Ashton. A brandy and two bottles of muscadel, red and white, produced by Montagu Winery.

“Hell, now you’re talking, my boy!” He pored me half a coffee mug of the red stuff.”Shit, I only wanted a taste,” I lied. “But thanks, anyway. Cheers!”

Anthony had just opened a craft beer, and mother and daughter up front declined the offer of sweet fortified vino. I sipped the dark nectar and savoured its calming effect.

“This is a fine muscadel, ideally suitable for the occasion. Here we are, following the road over these rolling hills towards the setting sun, feeling comfortably relaxed in good company. This is just the perfect beverage to lubricate one’s mental machinery.”

“And loosen the tongue,” I heard Krystyna say to Nina.

“It has been a really interesting day. Enriching, if you know what I mean. Breaking fresh ground on our pilgrimage to the famous bridge, and then standing in awe before that monument to technological ingenuity combined with aesthetic beauty. It was so uplifting, it made one proud to be a member of the same species that was capable of such an achievement.”

“Where is he going with this rubbish?” Nina asked.

“Be patient. He’ll get there eventually.”

“Yes, as I was saying, imagine my disappointment, the abrupt deflation of my elation, so to speak, when I clapped eyes on that crude graffiti, that barbaric act of desecration! And when descending to examine the ribbed underbelly of the structure, what did we discover?”

“Trash,” said Anthony, and he took another swig. “The usual trash left by the homeless. It was to be expected.”

“I suppose so, but I was dismayed, nevertheless.”

“And the locomotive?”

“I’m getting to the locomotive, Guy. Don’t rush me. Alright, just a dash.””

Mrs Martin glanced over her shoulder, her eyebrows raised in disapproval, but she refrained from urging restraint.

“That locomotive was put there for a reason. It was to memorialise the town’s origins and to educate the public about the time when steam engines were at the forefront of technology. It was a relic from the early 20^th century to be admired and wondered at. When I climbed up into that cab, I was marvelling at the simplicity of the design. A coal-fired boiler on wheels, water heated to produce steam under pressure, and the energy released to drive pistons that turn wheels. What  a brilliant concept!”

“And what did you find up there that left you shattered?”

“For fuck’s sake!”

“Sorry. Go ahead; I won’t interrupt again.”

“Thank you. Well, there I was imagining what it must have been like to be a train driver, when something assailed my olfactory organ, and it wasn’t coal smoke. On turning around I was confronted by the sight of human excrement. Somebody had climbed onto the metal plate of the coal shute and defecated. The unmistakable stench horrified and nauseated me, and I couldn’t get off that locomotive fast enough.”

“Why are you telling us again, Daddy? We heard about it back in Ashton.” Nina was looking at me in her rear-view mirror.

“I am assimilating the events of the day, ordering and assembling them so that they fit together to reveal some underlying meaning.”

“The unexamined life is not worth living, you know, babe.” There was mockery in Anthony’s voice.

“Today’s experience can be interpreted on two levels. The amazing technology behind both the locomotive and the bridge show just how clever we humans have become. And the aesthetics of the bridge, and the noble educational intention behind displaying the locomotive, are testimony to the artistic and intellectual heights we have reached. On this level we are justified in feeling smug and patting ourselves on the back.”

“And on the other level? I suppose…”

“I thought you weren’t going to interrupt me? “

“By interjecting now and then I am helping to turn what could be a boring monologue into an engaging dialogue of the Socratic kind.”

“Very well. You might have a point.”

I paused to take note of our surroundings. We had just passed Raka Wines and were ascending Akadis Pass. I drained the last of my muscadel, which was just slightly tainted by the taste of coffee, and then picked up my train of thought.

“On the second level we must consider the significance of the graffiti, the rubbish and the excrement. The graffiti is an act of vandalism expressing resentment, defiance and contempt, just as the barbarian marauders defaced Roman art works, and smashed and toppled statues. The rubbish is evidence of a dysfunctional society where millions are unemployed and live in squalid conditions. The excrement is the result of an atavistic urge to foul the lair of one’s enemy. In combination, these three things, the graffiti, the rubbish and the excrement, clearly point to what I see as an inevitable conclusion.”

“Ah, the punchline.”

“The human brain is at a stage of development where the growth of scientific knowledge and technological innovation is almost unlimited. We have also mastered an astonishingly powerful facility for artistic expression. However, our ability to modify and control the fundamental instincts that determine our social behaviour has not kept pace with those other aspects of the evolutionary process. That is why we are still shitting on ourselves, and it would take many thousands of years for our quarrelsome and violent traits to be modified sufficiently for us to live in harmony with one another and the environment. I’m afraid that well before that could happen, we will have annihilated ourselves, along with many other forms of life.”

We had bypassed Stanford and Grootbos was on our left. The sun was low over Walker Bay, the sea glittered, and the sky was beginning to present a photo opportunity for passing tourists.

“Basically, what you are describing is a design fault,” Guy said. “Instead of developing in tandem, cognitive ability and behavioural adaptation have progressed at a different pace, resulting in the gross malfunction of both individuals and society as a whole. Definitely a design fault.”

“And what about our other design faults?” asked Anthony. Evolution has made a mess of us. Standing up and walking on our back legs might have had advantages, but it resulted in wear and tear on our joints, and the narrowing of the pelvis has made childbirth difficult and painful, not to say dangerous.”

“What about the appendix? Totally superfluous and nothing but trouble. And wisdom teeth. The mouth got smaller but the number of teeth stayed the same. Man, I’ve had to have all of mine out. That’s a design fuck-up, if ever there was one!”

“If we were an aircraft or a car, we would have been taken out of service long ago.”

“God made a major foul-up right in the beginning,” Krystyna said. “We are a failed project, and the sooner a meteorite obliterates the entire race, the better.” She sounded quite matter-of-fact about it, and even cheerful.

“Yes,” Nina agreed. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful for the rest of life on earth if humans went extinct? The only worry would be that one of our primate relatives might evolve into Homo sapiens 2.O.”

We had passed through Gansbaai, crossed the beam bridge at Uilkraal, and were almost back in Pearly Beach.

“Well,” I said, “it’s been a most interesting outing. The weather was good, the company charming, and….”

“Blah, blah, blah.”

“And thank you for doing all the driving, Nina. Much appreciated. Now we must plan for another trip, before the Apocalypse comes.”

“Too late,” said Anthony. “The end times have already begun.”

(The events are factual but the dialogue is fictional, and I apologise for putting words into people's mouths.)