By: Blonde Two
I read an interesting story on Tuesday about a poor chap who called the police because he was too scared to cross a bridge. As you might remember, I had a few moments panic and a bit of a wobble about crossing a bridge the other night (night navigation assessment). I am full sympathy with the bloke in the story and grateful to him for teaching me a new word – gephyrophobia (fear of bridges).
Although I do have some issues with river crossings, stepping stones in particular. I don’t think that I am gephyrophobic. There have, however, been a couple of bridges in my history that I have shared a less than friendly relationship with.
My first memory of bridge dislike was a wooden bridge across a medium sized duck pond in our town park. This bridge had lovely views of swans and water and offered a great spot for duck feeding. All perfect for a family outing apart from the fact that it had gaps between the planks big enough to swallow a small child. I have been back since and they are not that huge but I was, after all, at that time, a small child.
The picture above is an example of another bridge that I wasn’t too impressed with. I am quite ashamed of this one. It was in New Zealand last summer (they love bridges there) and I missed out on some beautiful blue pools because I was too scared to cross it – anyone who has walked anywhere in NZ will know that the Kiwis are particularly fond of swing bridges. This one was not the Indiana Jones, cut the ropes and watch the bridge collapse type but there are some like that (or there used to be). As you can see, I did get onto the bridge but it was too bouncy for me and I didn’t stay on there long.
As it turns out, the chap in the news story with gephyrophobia had been mislead by his sat-nav and was, in fact, about to cross the Thames via the Dartford Tunnel (no relation to Darmoor). Did I mention that I don’t really like tunnels either? …