The Bridge
by Kenny Wilson
Genre: Memoir
Swearwords: None.
Description: An affectionate thought about a bridge and where it leads to.
Swearwords: None.
Description: An affectionate thought about a bridge and where it leads to.
Somewhere down Easter Road way lies an area of Edinburgh which seems at times almost forgotten. I suppose, once, many many years ago, it would have been farm fields, with the odd burn or two running down, from what is now London Road, to irrigate them. At some point ‘working houfes’ would have sprouted up on the fields as lone persons tried to scratch a living from some idea like hat making or basket weaving. Sometimes these ‘houfes’ would have doubled as accommodation. By the mid 19th Century the ‘houfes’ would all have been displaced by a newer, more vibrant crop of enterprises such as manufacturing factories, distilleries, and breweries with the railways to irrigate them. For the cogs in the wheels of these monster machines there would be people, and for them, tenements grew on these ‘once upon a time green fields’, all built using the traditional dark imposing stone of the expanding Edinburgh sprawl.
Today the industry and railways has almost gone, replaced by the ‘here now, gone tomorrow’ industrial parks and units. Half empty, half abandoned to druggies and drunks. However the tenements are still there, grey, imposing but weathered, withered and tired. The only vibrant crop now is the spreading weeds and decay.
And in the middle of all this is the bridge. A bridge made of iron and rivets. A footbridge from the end of one street to the end of another. Spanning a railway line that is no longer there. The bridge has been there a long time. It was built to last. It leads to one of the few open spaces left in the area. It leads to the last field, a field of dreams for the tired, a refuge. This is where Hibernian F.C. play.
As a boy I waited on the bridge on match days, pleading for a ‘lift over’ because I did not have the match entrance fee. ‘’Geese a lift over mister, please.’’ Given time it always worked. Hibees always looked after their own. Once inside I was confronted and seduced by the sheer magic and noise. The home crowd would be signing, swaying, waiting for the teams to run out onto the field. Oh and when the mighty Hibees appeared!! Eleven heroes to at least one wee boy.
Today I still cross the bridge, even though technically it should be for only ‘away’ supporters to use this route, but I take my chances anyway. The field of dreams demands its fee in different and varied forms and this is mine. When I cross I change, I metamorphose into that 9 year old boy going off to see his heroes playing in those wonderful green and white shirts. Every one of them 10 feet tall as they take to the pitch. Luckily my match day friends tolerate my condition, after all they are Hibees too. We all have our quirks and ticks.
There is talk of the bridge being demolished and a new bridge being built in its place. One which will accept cars, one which will join the two dead end streets. This should not happen. Fields of dreams need their walkers because those fields need their dreamers and dreamers need their bridge.
Today the industry and railways has almost gone, replaced by the ‘here now, gone tomorrow’ industrial parks and units. Half empty, half abandoned to druggies and drunks. However the tenements are still there, grey, imposing but weathered, withered and tired. The only vibrant crop now is the spreading weeds and decay.
And in the middle of all this is the bridge. A bridge made of iron and rivets. A footbridge from the end of one street to the end of another. Spanning a railway line that is no longer there. The bridge has been there a long time. It was built to last. It leads to one of the few open spaces left in the area. It leads to the last field, a field of dreams for the tired, a refuge. This is where Hibernian F.C. play.
As a boy I waited on the bridge on match days, pleading for a ‘lift over’ because I did not have the match entrance fee. ‘’Geese a lift over mister, please.’’ Given time it always worked. Hibees always looked after their own. Once inside I was confronted and seduced by the sheer magic and noise. The home crowd would be signing, swaying, waiting for the teams to run out onto the field. Oh and when the mighty Hibees appeared!! Eleven heroes to at least one wee boy.
Today I still cross the bridge, even though technically it should be for only ‘away’ supporters to use this route, but I take my chances anyway. The field of dreams demands its fee in different and varied forms and this is mine. When I cross I change, I metamorphose into that 9 year old boy going off to see his heroes playing in those wonderful green and white shirts. Every one of them 10 feet tall as they take to the pitch. Luckily my match day friends tolerate my condition, after all they are Hibees too. We all have our quirks and ticks.
There is talk of the bridge being demolished and a new bridge being built in its place. One which will accept cars, one which will join the two dead end streets. This should not happen. Fields of dreams need their walkers because those fields need their dreamers and dreamers need their bridge.
About the Author
Kenny Wilson was born and raised in Edinburgh’s Southside. Now in his sixtieth year, he describes himself as a writer, a dreamer and lucky.