Our changing landscape

The Atlantic Ocean... beautiful but lethal

Last Christmas, Elinor bought the DVD of zoologist Nigel Marven’s hilarious ‘Walking with Dinosaurs: The Giant Claw & Land of Giants’ as an extra present for Amber, 8, and Imogen, 6. 

In these films, Nigel time travels back to a time when dinosaurs roamed the earth and interacts with them (okay, you do need to suspend your disbelief ever so slightly). It’s real, laugh out loud entertainment and the dinosaur encounters look very realistic. There’s one memorable scene when a giant herbivorous dinosaur sneezes all over Nigel and there are frequent near-death encounters with smaller species who view him as a timely snack.

Harri and I loved it; the children… not the slightest bit impressed.

Maybe it’s because I know I’ll never experience the thrill of time travel firsthand that I’m riveted by the BBC’s computer-generated glimpses into prehistory (Walking with Cavemen is another favourite). What fascinates me most is how the earth's landscape and climate have changed dramatically over millions of years and continues to change right in front of our eyes.

 Europe's oldest skeleton was found in Goat's Hole Cave

The BBC website’s In Pictures section currently features a fascinating article about Britain’s Lost Villages. Photographer Neil A White’s project documents the massive coastal erosion along the North East of England. A previously inland village, Skipsea, is gradually getting closer to the sea, its coastal road all but collapsed, and the fate of a static caravan site increasingly uncertain.

Skipsea’s current-day residents have to live with the knowledge that nearby cliffs are eroding at an annual rate of nearly two metres. It's scary stuff and they are not alone. Coastal erosion is also taking place in other parts of the UK.

A house in Torquay, bought at auction in 2010 without a structural survey, is now teetering so close to the cliff that it’s uninhabitable. Only last summer, a 20-metre stretch of the South West Coast Path collapsed at Burton Bradstock, tragically killing a young woman who was walking on the beach below.

In the series A History of Ancient Britain (screened on BBC2 in 2011), archaeologist Neil Oliver was shown the ‘Red Lady of Paviland’, a skeleton discovered on the Gower peninsula in 1823 and now believed to be the oldest human remains in Europe.

The Upper Paleolithic era human skeleton, so-named because it was dyed in red ochre and was originally believed to be female, was found during an archaeological dig at Goat’s Hole Cave, between Port Eynon and Rhossili.  

The Bristol Channel has replaced a tundra plain

The skeleton is unusually complete and is indisputably  Homo sapiens. Yet despite the location of his bones, this young mammoth hunter, who lived over 30,000 years ago, was not a coastal dweller. As Britain descended into the last Ice Age we were still connected to Europe; the sea level was 80 metres lower than today and the cave where he was buried would have been located on the edge of a large tundra plain stretching south towards Exmoor.

Scientists now believe that dinosaurs disappeared off the earth over 66 million years ago, a timescale which makes 30,000 years seem relatively recent. Yet, during that period, our landscape has changed dramatically. 

And as Neil A White’s photographs demonstrate so graphically, the sea has continued to claim the land surreptitiously, with just the occasional dramatic event. 

The Wales Coast Path officially opened in 2012 and yet already one section between Port Eynon and Oxwich is so badly eroded that a diversion is in place. 

The ever-changing nature of the Gower coastline

If you ignore the cost to human lives, the ever-evolving coastal landscape is actually rather exciting. 

One of my favourite exhibits at the National Museum of Wales, Cardiff was always the counter which graphically illustrated how continental drift was widening the gap between Europe and the US at the rate of one inch a year (I don't know if it's still there). The gradual movement of tectonic plates is imperceptible; over a human lifetime, the Atlantic Ocean will have widened  no more than the length of a dining room table but no-one will notice it happening. But over millions of years…as I said, it's exciting stuff. 

The Gower peninsula we know today didn't exist until the last Ice Age ended about 12,000 years ago and sea levels rose rapidly. And the landscape is still changing, most noticeably on its north coast.

At least from the Roman period, the three-mile wide Loughor Estuary was an important access point for boats. Penclawdd was a thriving port and the numerous pills that run between the mud flats were easily navigable.

Unfortunately for the village, the estuary’s main channel naturally fluctuated and, in the late 19^th century, a wall intended to confine it to the north side of the estuary had the unwanted effect of accelerating the silting up of the estuary on the Penclawdd side. Now, rather than facing the open sea, the village looks out over salt marshes and mud flats, at the wild ponies grazing on them. 

We’ve grown accustomed to witnessing constant changes to our built landscape; new housing estates springing up everywhere (one last year in Rhiwderin), constant road-building, office refurbishments and demolition (this week, the long-overdue tearing down of my former workplace, County Hall, Croesyceiliog).  

Natural disasters aside, the natural landscape undergoes a more subtle transformation, with gradual processes like erosion going unnoticed during a human lifespan. 

The changes are happening though, day by day, year by year, whether we realise it or not. 

And 30,000 years from now, the Gower peninsula - indeed, the whole of the Welsh coastline - will be dramatically changed from the current-day landscape.

Visiting Gower... again and again...

Whiteford Point's unusual cast-iron lighthouse can only be reached at low tide

Our first-ever mini break as a couple was a two-day hike from Rhossili, Gower to Mumbles, with an overnight stay at Oxwich. It therefore seems fitting that, six years later, Harri and I have just completed his third walking guidebook on this beautiful Welsh peninsula.

This latest book was by far the quickest to complete in walking terms. Top Ten Walks: Carmarthen Bay and Gower Peninsula was an absolute pleasure to research and easy to walk (the longest walk is just six and a half miles).

Picturesque Pwlldu Bay on the south Gower coast

The scenery on what Harri describes as ‘a small but priceless gem’ is stunning and astonishingly varied. In the introduction to his first Gower book (awaiting publication by Northern Eye Books), he expands, ‘Here are hidden coves and glorious sandy beaches, high cliffs and windswept downs, dunes, marshland, wooded valleys and picturesque villages. Almost every path on Gower opens up a new and rewarding perspective, a different aspect of the peninsula’s varied landscape.'

And he's absolutely right. In the twenty-first century, Gower remains astonishingly unspoilt, in large due to the long-time commitment and determination of the Gower Society, whose mission statement proclaims (or perhaps warns) it's ‘Guarding Gower for all its worth’.

The registered charity was founded way back in 1947. I won’t list all its aims here, just what I consider the most relevant ones:

• to encourage an appreciation and love of Gower
• to preserve its character and antiquities, and to oppose any threat to its amenities.

Harri, deep in thought on Rhossili Downs

No-one could dispute the Society's success in preserving Gower's natural landscape, despite what they claim was an unfair portrayal of members as 'the bad guys' in the 2012 BBC 2 mini series, Gower.

True, there has been substantial house building in villages like Llangennith, but on the whole the peninsula remains as wild and unspoilt as it was back in the 1940s, which is quite amazing when you consider its appeal and proximity to Wales’ third largest city, Swansea.

The Gower Society gets full marks for preserving what makes this little peninsula (the winding roads are deceiving – Gower is barely more than 15 miles (24 km) long and seven miles (11km) wide) so special - its incredible natural beauty. 

On that first weekend back in 2007, Harri and I booked into a small bed and breakfast in Oxwich, where the dour-faced proprietor was clearly a graduate from the Basil Fawlty School of Customer Service (either that or she disapproved of our obvious age difference). Despite its popularity, Oxwich, with its population of under 200, boasts just one eaterie, the Oxwich Bay Hotel.  When we showed up, on a Saturday night in June, without a prior booking, it was bursting at the seams. Seeing the dismay on our faces (surely our rumbling tummies weren't that loud?), a kind-hearted staff member (presumably a protégée of Sybil rather than Basil) said we could eat at a table in reception if we didn't mind. We assured him we didn't!

Since that first weekend, we’ve returned to the Gower many times. One memorable place we stayed was The Slope, in Middleton. This tiny space was originally built as a summer dwelling for the owners to move into during the summer when they let their neighbouring (and much larger) home out to holiday-makers. A local tenant farmer, Jack Gibbs, built The Slope in the early 1900s using cliff limestone, handmade bricks and some beach-combed timber. Sadly, he died in World War 1.

The Slope - small but perfectly formed

The building was converted into self-catering accommodation by the present owners in 1994 and the result is delightful. The ground floor combines a kitchen and diningroom and there's a shower/toilet cubicle concealed in an under-stairs cupboards. Upstairs, the open plan bedroom, with its television and comfy chairs, doubles as a sitting room. The Slope is small but perfectly formed; we stayed for four nights and would happily have moved in permanently. 

On another trip we stayed at Greenbank Cottage, Reynoldston, a B & B where the friendly owners have come up with the most brilliant and practical of ideas. Being hikers themselves, they understand how frustrating it is to have an early start thwarted by a slow-to-arrive cooked breakfast. Their solution? To provide a basketful of warm rolls and croissants outside your private French doors at an agreed time. And in case you get the 'nibbles' in the night, there is an assortment of biscuits and other snacks provided (there's a table and chairs and also a very useful fridge). 

Their simple idea means guests can set off as early as they wish (with some nice fresh rolls for lunch!). Other B & B owners, please take note.

There's something quite magical about a beach at low tide

Of course, not all our overnight stays have been so idyllically located. Soaring fuel costs have forced us to look for cheaper accommodation, like the Swansea Travelodge just off the M4 (there's no breakfast but the rooms are clean and spacious and the reception staff are always wonderfully friendly and helpful (more input from Sybil Fawlty perhaps?).

So with Harri’s third Gower book done and dusted, we no longer have our bona fide, i.e. work-related, reason to wander alongside wild ponies grazing peacefully on the salt marsh and mudflats of the north Gower coast or to get wet feet walking to Whiteford Point at low tide. 

There's no pressing need to climb the long, high ridge of Cefn Bryn, struggle against the wind to reach the 193-metre summit of Rhossili Down or to photograph Gower’s amazing views.

There are no longer any work-related reasons to visit Gower, just spiritual ones. 

A friendly local on Harding's Down

Top Ten Walks: Carmarthen Bay and Gower Peninsula by Harri Roberts will be published by Northern Eye Books later this year.

                                                                                       

What's in a name?

Hiking in mid Wales beats cooking Sunday lunch

I was lying in bed a few nights ago thinking about this blog (as you do) and it occurred to me that some readers might consider its name rather sexist. As ‘The Walker’s Wife’ was I perhaps suggesting that Harri was the pro-active doer and I was the little wife who follows, quite literally, in his footsteps.

It’s absolutely untrue, of course, our relationship is based on equality and shared respect, but in the middle of the night it seemed imperative that I explain the origin of the blog's name. So here goes...

I’ve always been passionate about walking, although in my younger days my wanderings were limited by a lack of transport (my parents didn’t own a car until I’d left home and I didn’t learn to drive myself until my late twenties) and the inability to read a map. Nonetheless, walk I did, as often and as far as possible.

Those early walks weren't anything like the scenic hikes I now enjoy with Harri. For a start, I usually had a reluctant walking companion in tow - a friend, boyfriend, my younger sister... I once even persuaded my then 60-year-old dad that a brisk afternoon walk around Grwyne Fawr reservoir in the Black Mountains was exactly what he needed. To explain, I'd treated myself to my first proper hiking boots and I was desperate to try them out in proper hiking country. 

The majestic Black Mountains

Recently retired, Dad  reluctantly agreed to join me on a strenuous, high speed hike on a scorching summer afternoon. Strenuous because my spur-of-the-moment expedition involved a meandering climb to the summit of Waun Fach (811 metres), high speed because my part-time job at Tesco (in Newport) required that I be sitting at a till in my uniform at five o'clock. My poor dad stoically tried to keep pace with me, a knotted white cotton handkerchief on his head as he struggled uphill and down, never quite sure where we were heading. 

That afternoon was probably the closest I've come to killing one of my walking companions... although, now I come to think of it, there was the freezing cold Boxing Day when my (lack of) navigational skills resulted in an ex and I combing the snowy slopes of Coity Mountain as we searched in vain for the Lamb and Fox (we later learned it's located on the Blorenge, on the other side of the valley). So you see, despite my great and enduring passion for the great outdoors, I didn't really have a clue when it came to preparing for hiking jaunts, planning routes or reading maps. As for using a compass... well, the less said about that... 

In my late thirties, I joined Gwent Mountaineering, a long-established club for mountaineers, climbers and walkers in South East Wales, where I met some very nice like-minded people, like the Abergavenny-based writer and publisher Chris Barber. 

Harri on top of a summit ... somewhere (I just take the pics)

There was just one problem - our weekly meeting places tended to be hard-to-find car parks in remote mountain areas, frequently a two-hour drive from my home, e.g. the Radnor Forest. With three children to drop off en route, Sunday mornings became just as hectic and stressful as working days. I lived in fear of arriving at the designated car park and finding everyone else had set off ten minutes early. 

The Ramblers met closer to home, and I enjoyed quite a few walks with our local group before a particularly opinionated (male) member told me outright that, as a mother, I should be home cooking Sunday lunch rather than enjoying a ramble. His forthright views (though extreme and misogynistic) rather put a dampener on things. 

Unfortunately, my career and family commitments meant I did very little hiking for several years and then, in 2006, Harri walked into my life (well, to be precise, into my office). We became friends and soon discovered we shared a love of the outdoors, hiking in particular. He texted me one day to ask if I'd like to accompany him on a 'yomp' that Sunday.

The absolutely stunning Whiteford Sands, north Gower

Little did I know it at the time, but that first walk over the Blorenge, would mark the beginning of a whole new life for me - as an outdoor writer's other half. 

Harri started writing for the Walking World website and soon secured a commission to write a book of day walks on his much-loved Gower peninsula. 

Other commissions quickly followed and I found myself spending more and more time accompanying Harri on his hikes. I prepared our packed lunches and was put in charge of photography. 

How cute - who could eat them?

I enjoyed being involved in Harri's new career, but one aspect of things bugged me. The remit of a guidebook author is to explain accurately and succinctly how to navigate a particular route. Guidebooks demand a lot of mapping and photographs and there simply isn't room to wax lyrically about pretty little coastal villages, how we freed a sheep from a barbed wire fence or the hilarious incident that happened in the local pub.

Yet so many interesting things did happen while we were out walking and these often amusing incidents added hugely to our enjoyment. I mused out loud that I'd like to write about walking too; not in an instructional way but linking our walking experiences with my own thoughts and ideas.

As I'd anticipated, Harri was 100% supportive of the idea and, since day one, he's been my blog's biggest fan. 

He will always be the one who pores over maps for hours on end and knows his north-west from his north-east. Me? I get enthused by newborn lambs, piglets and an unexpected field of daffodils in the Brecon Beacons.

And so The Walker's Wife was born. Not because I'm anti-feminist or subservient, but because like other outdoor writers, I yearn to share my love of wild places with others. 

... the irony, of course, is we're not actually married.

It's good to strike up a conversation with the locals

The tippler's tale

The coast path soars and plummets continually after Tintagel

Lunchtime drinking and afternoon hiking - definitely not a match made in heaven.

Harri loves to remind me about the time we were walking the South West Coast Path and had reached the north coast of Cornwall. (Sadly, we're still in Fowey, figuratively speaking, but that's another story). 

Feeling particularly energetic on our arrival at Tintagel Haven (we'd covered just under five miles at this point), we decided to hike uphill and into Tintagel proper. It's a strange place, Tintagel; its popularity with tourists is based solely on a fascination with the Arthurian legend, yet there's really little there except restaurants and shops that have flourished to meet the tourist demand. 

It was a warm afternoon so we settled down outside a pub and ordered two generously-sized bottles of pear cider (we were going through that phase). You know where I'm going with this... the ambiance, the sunshine... before long we were ordering another bottle, this time to share.

Saint Materiana Church is set apart from the bustling Tintagel

Alcohol always goes to my head at lunchtime but hey, we were on holiday and we only had another nine miles to cover before Port Isaac. We wandered out of Tintagel, happily tipsy and at peace with the world. Back on the cliff tops, we noted the stark contrast between Tintagel's touristy main street and the bleakness of the grey-stoned parish church, Saint Materiana between Tintagel Castle and Trevena. 

It was a tough afternoon's hiking. Roland Tarr (author of the National Trail Guidebook we were using) recommends allowing five hours from Trebarwith Strand to Port Isaac, which seemed a little extreme. Most serious coast path hikers don't dawdle after all, we stride with intent! 

The pear cider wore off leaving us with the familiar lethargy that inevitably accompanies lunchtime drinking. Meanwhile, the coast path took great joy in climbing steeply to 90 metres before plunging back to sea level... and not just once. Over and over, the path rose up and up, only to plummet minutes later. In Roland's own words 'there are seven very steep and deep valleys to cross' and every single one of them required a massive effort.

The sun was setting as we limped into Port Isaac

When we finally reached Port Isaac the sun was setting and we were exhausted. We had, however, learned an important lesson: keep the drinking for the end of the hike.

Which is why my latest escapade is inexcusable. It was my daughter Elinor's 26th birthday and she was back in Wales for an interview (she got the job). I'd already managed to get lost on a neighbouring housing estate as I walked to our agreed meeting point which didn't bode well for the longer hike I didn't have planned for later in the day. (Just to explain, it's one of those seventies estates with lots of little alleyways hidden between the houses and linking various roads.)

It was a bitterly cold day and the interviewers were running late. By the time Elinor finally emerged, I'd long given up circling Cardiff Bay to keep warm and was taking refuge in a bus shelter. When we arrived at the central Cardiff pub, I was in dire need of a double brandy but it was tactfully suggested that bottle of wine might be a more appropriate way to celebrate a daughter's birthday.

I rarely drink wine and I seldom drink it at lunchtime so the effect was fairly predictable. A large glass and a half of rose and I was, er, yes you've guessed, rather tipsy. I walked to Cathedral Road where my daughter was meeting a friend for an afternoon at the spa. We hugged and said our goodbyes. It was three o'clock and I thought I might walk home. 

The A48 through Llanrumney - dull and uninspiring

It's actually 13.5 miles from Cathedral Road to my house by road but I had a cunning plan - I would follow the A48 from Cardiff town centre to St Mellon's and then take a short cut through the lanes near Michaelston y Fedw. This seemed to me a great idea, though, to be fair to Elinor, she tried hard to talk me out of it! 

Footwear wouldn't be a problem - I was wearing my trusty Salomons - and my woolly scarf would keep the wind off my neck. My large shoulder bag held very little and I could button up my velvet jacket more tightly. No water bottle, no sustenance, no map. Just a crazy urge to walk miles on a freezing late March afternoon.

Just to add to the self-imposed pressure, I was going to the theatre that evening and had to be out again by 6.15pm. Oh dear, it's no wonder the UK's mountain rescue teams are kept busy throughout the winter, is it? This is what happens when you drink too much wine at lunchtime!

After a while, one bridleway looks very much like another 

Of course, I wasn't ever in any real danger but, an hour or so later, when it started snowing heavily, I started to regret my wine-induced enthusiasm for hiking. I hurried towards the lanes, rummaging in my bag for my Samsung Y - my map substitute. It was fine while I was walking along actual lanes but when I turned onto a footpath, it wasn't quite so easy to work out where I actually was. Everything looked vaguely familiar (we've done a lot of walking in the area) but with twilight rapidly approaching, the fields started looking pretty much the same. I headed along a bridleway only to turn and retrace my steps when I reached a closed gate with no sign of a stile (I now know that bridleways rarely have stiles as horses aren't terribly adept at climbing over them).

It was twenty past five and snowing. I was thirsty and worried. For the second time that day, I was lost.

There was no alternative but to ring Harri. His initial reaction was one of incredulity and our conversation went something along the lines of:

Harri: 'Are you completely mad? Why on earth did you think walking home from Cardiff was a good idea?' 

Me: 'I wanted a walk.' 

Harri: 'Do you know how far it is from Cardiff to Rhiwderin? And aren't you supposed to be going out tonight?'

Me: 'I thought I could walk fast.'

Harri: 'So where exactly are you?'

(At this point, I detected some irritation in his voice; he was translating a large document and I'd disturbed his concentration.)

Me: 'In a field.'

He sighed, exasperated, but I knew he'd come out and rescue me because, basically, he's a lovely, caring guy. 

Now the challenge was working out my exact location so he could direct me back to civilisation. It's actually quite difficult to describe a featureless field to someone on the end of a phone but luck was with me as this one had a line of electricity pylons running across it. My location determined, Harri explained what I needed to do to reach the nearest metalled lane. He'd pick me up from there.  

It transpired that I was actually only about half an hour's walk away from home but the terrain around here is undulating and I was so disorientated I'd probably have walked around in circles for hours.

I tell this tale as a warning to others whose love of hiking and a lunchtime tipple occasionally overrides their common sense. From now on, this is one tippler who will tipple only after her day's walking is done... . 

It could have been so much worse... the fields near home in winter

A bridge for all seasons - unless it's closed

An ingenious resolution to a tidal headache

I was delighted to read recently that Newport City Council has at last re-opened the Grade I listed Transporter Bridge. 

The 106-year-old bridge, which has been threatened with permanent closure more than once in its long history and has been temporarily closed more times that I care to remember, will remain open Wednesday to Sunday, 10am to 5pm, until the end of September.

The Transporter Bridge was designed to overcome a very specific problem – the unusually high tidal range of the 120km long River Usk. The vast variation in water levels meant it was impossible for a ferry to operate at low tide, but difficult for tall-masted ships to pass under an ordinary bridge at high tide.  

A rather unusual river crossing

Fortunately for we Newportonians, the brilliant French engineer Ferdinand Arnodin managed to overcome the tidal problem with his innovative design. A 74m tower on each bank of the river linking a horizontal beam at 54 metres above the road provided plenty of head height for passing ships, while a hanging gondola transported vehicles across the river at a speed of three metres per second.

When it opened on September 12 1906 (Godfrey Charles Morgan, 1^st Viscount Tredegar performed the official opening ceremony), it was the town’s second river crossing (after Town Bridge); in 2013, it’s the fourth vehicular crossing in the city (there is also a footbridge alongside the university) and the lowest crossing point on the River Usk.

The Transporter Bridge's claim to fame is featuring in the 1959 film Tiger Bay starring Hayley Mills, although artistic licence saw it located near Cardiff rather than Newport docks.

My dad was born in the shadow of this giant, in a tiny cottage long since demolished. Although I grew up on the opposite side of the river on Corporation Road, the bridge also played a major part in my own childhood.

The gondola holds six carefully positioned vehicles

We kids would often walk the two miles or so to Coronation Park. Once we’d tired of the playground, we’d hop onto the bridge’s gondola and while away the afternoon crossing the River Usk. I remember being fascinated by the orderly way in which up to six cars drove onto the platform and waited, stationary, until the gondola reached the far bank, only to disembark just as impressively.

There was no charge for pedestrians, although it did cost 5p to walk over the top and you had to ask one of the operators to unlock the gates for you. If you happened to descend on one side of the bank while the gondola was being loaded on the other, you could be imprisoned on the lower steps for up to ten minutes.

I must have been about fifteen when I finally plucked up the courage to climb the tower steps and take the high road. I was frightened to death, perhaps one of the reasons I had no inclination to repeat the experience until around 2000.

Smiling but terrified @ 1976

Another reason was that the bridge closed in 1985 due to wear and tear. It remained closed for a decade, continuing to dominate Newport’s skyline but sadly dormant. In 1995 it reopened after a £3m refurbishment, but when more maintenance was needed at the end of 2007, the bridge was again closed, its future uncertain. 

There was a rumour that our beloved bridge could have the same fate as the 1831 London Bridge, which was dismantled in 1967 and sold to the US for a cool million. It now stands proudly in Lake Havasu City, Arizona, where it forms the centre of an 'English' theme park. Fortunately, our fears proved unfounded or maybe the price was just too high.

Around 2000, I ventured across the top again (I know it was a Bank Holiday Monday because, at that point, it was the only time it was open to the public). I took my three daughters along, two teenagers and a little one. I tried desperately to hide my terror but it was no good. 

As my youngest hopped and skipped her way across the bridge, I clung to the barrier and edged along, trying hard not to look down. I’ve kept well away from those towering steel girders for more than a decade.

My daughters are fearless at the top of the Transporter Bridge

Fast forward to July 2010 when Newport hosted the prestigious Ryder Cup and vast amounts of money were spent trying to give visiting golf fans the impression that Newport was a vibrant, modern city. Call me cynical, but I don’t think the re-opening of the Transporter Bridge that year was unrelated.

You’d think that would be the end of the story, but was it ever? In 2011, the bridge both closed and re-opened. By now, I think most local people had lost track of whether they could cross the river in Pillgwenlly or not (I certainly had). I presume that’s why the official Wales Coast Path directs people farther up river to the unimaginatively named City Bridge (I actually remember our local newspaper, the South Wales Argus, running a competition to name this new bow-string arch bridge and that, it seems, was the best anyone could come up with!). Anyway, most people still refer to it as the SDR (Southern Distributor Road) bridge after the major road it’s located on.

But interesting as the SDR bridge is, it will never dominate Newport’s skyline in the way the Transporter Bridge has done for over a century.

Towering over the River Usk for 106 years

I doubt I’ll ever pluck up sufficient courage to climb those steps again. But that doesn't mean I don’t applaud Newport council for finally recognising this magnificent structure, the largest of the eight remaining in the world, as Newport’s most significant tourist attraction.

I recently suggested to my grand-daughters, aged eight and six, that they might like to follow in grandma’s footsteps and venture up those flights of steel steps but they weren't too keen. 

Perhaps I should have reminded them that with the bridge’s chequered history of closure and re-opening, 2013 might be their last opportunity to cross it as children.

Charges have gone up substantially since my childhood. In 2013, you’ll pay:

• Cars: £1.00 per crossing
• Foot passengers and cyclists: 50p per crossing
• Day visitor including access the motor house and high level walkway: £2.50 (children and concessions: £1.50)

Travelling on the gondola was a childhood passion