Afternoon T

My Grandad, Dick was very interested in the construction of the Humber suspension bridge and we would have regular outings to the south bank of the river, where there was a viewpoint cum picnic area, to monitor its progress.

The North Tower, built on a good sturdy shore position was already well established and seemed to be waiting rather impatiently for its South based equivalent to emerge from what was proving to be quite a technical challenge of sinking a footing into a concrete pier out in the main tidal channel itself.

It was a constant battle between man as an engineer and the river as a force of nature before the former won through at the south end, albeit some considerable period behind schedule. Grandad Dick would take us to the flood defences in his purpley coloured Triumph Dolomite which smelt of his pipe tobacco and was always well equipped with butterscotch flavoured boiled sweets. The interior was a pale mustard colour and with that distinctive blend of its own odours of vinyl seats, burning engine oil and the carbon monoxide of the old leaded petrol. Even though typically British Leyland it was quite a smart looking car, external chrome trim and a little bit sporty.

The route from his bungalow in the village of Broughton was some 15 or so miles by a tortuous cross country route, via our house in Brigg. We would pack into the back seat of the car. In the days pre compulsory belting up this was not a problem for five children. Excitedly we would wave to any of our friends who might be playing out in our road as though we were embarking on a round the world trip rather than a quick drive out to see The Bridge. As we were chauffered out of the town we would remark on the obvious sights of the war memorial, cottage hospital, old folks home, recreation ground and council housing estate as though in first time wonderment although we had actually only walked past them the day before on the way to and from school.

The left turn at the fork in the road outside Wrawby marked the beginning of the potential onset of travel sickness amongst some of our number. If mother had remembered to give us a Quell pill then we were probably going to get there and back without honking up. As a failsafe we could always resort to just sitting on a newspaper which seemed to provide a psychological remedy but did leave an inky newsprint mark on your shorts bottoms.

The Triumph did not seem able to get above 40mph with a more than capacity contingent aboard. This was tolerable on the flat road sections skirting the west side of Wrawby and still enough of a velocity to make the car seem to take off briefly and lose contact with the tarmac road at the railway crossing which bore deep scars where motorists, not knowing about the pronounced dip then the raised camber would stand to severely dent or even rip off their exhaust system from the grounded underside. I could well imagine a shower of disturbing sparks accompanying an horrific cacophony of displaced metal.

The problem with an overloaded, under powered car was the ascent of the hill out of Elsham. This was long, steep and complicated by a few twists and turns which demanded deft use of changing down from fourth, to third and then second but always mindful of resorting to first gear if the run-up was interrupted by a slow moving lorry or tractor and trailer. Us kids would lift ourselves off the seat as though hoping this would lessen our combined dead weight and give the car that little boost of power to cope with the gradient. The countdown to the summit was enthusiastic and very loud and I am convinced that this did the trick every time.

From the peak there was a short plateau which gave a first glimpse in the misty distance of the bridge towers. On the undulating downs and ups over the next 4 or so miles there were other fleeting and tantalising views of the latest progressive stage of construction adding to the anticipation of all onboard.

The last descent was into Barton upon Humber past the swimming baths and down to the main crossroads of the High Street. There were some very old houses in the town, Georgian, which meant nothing to us although it sounded like Gorgon which we knew was a monster from ancient mythology. Still, he had to live somewhere we supposed.

One street we always looked forward to seeing was not on the basis of its architecture, scary monstrous greek inhabitants or any important features in particular but the council road sign. The name of the street was generally innocent enough and referred to a natural land feature common to the town. At face value the black lettering on a white enamelled background was innocent and descriptive. It read, for most of the time Far Ings Road.

However, some local with a mischievous sense of humour regularly and quite skilfully in matching the print type would insert a sole letter 't' in between Far and Ings which would cause us all to break out in uncontrollable laughter and some good impressions of  what the amended grouping of words might sound like out loud. Backs of hands became quite reddened and raw under the dribble infused blowing process.

This was, looking back now, very rude and disrespectful to Grandad Dick on what was a trip he very much looked forward to and treasured. Sadly he passed away just before the Humber Bridge, at that time the longest single span suspension bridge in the world, was completed.

It does remain a very striking landmark although surpassed in more recent years by other similar civil engineering feats by progressive nations. Each crossing I make of the magnificent bridge looks down on the viewing cum picnic area and I can easily visualise Grandad Dick, hands in pockets and surrounded in aromatic pipe tobacco smoke being very much in approval and admiration of the structure.

I was in Barton just today and it seems that the townsfolk have developed a genetic dispostion to perpetuate the addition of a single letter 't' in the good old time served manner into the same old road sign to inform and entertain the young and feeble minded.