I didn’t even want to cross the river.  I was quite content with my amble along the bank of the Charente; had no thought for what lay on the other side of it.  That was until I saw the bridge.

The Rochefort-Martrou Transporter Bridge is the last operational transporter bridge in France; one of the last left in the world, not that there were a whole big lot of them ever built in the first place.  I could quote lots of big numbers about it, but… no, hell, no buts, I am going to quote lots of big numbers about it.  Built in 1898; 218 feet high; 576 feet wide.  It is an impressive structure.

Different from regular bridges, transporter bridges don’t offer a continuous pathway across a river; instead, a moveable gondola shuttles passengers back and forth, suspended from wires attached to the bridge frame.

Even though I didn’t want to cross the Charente, how could I possibly resist a ride on a transporter bridge?

I purchased a ticket––return––and, thankful to see that the gondola was already on my side of the river, stepped onto the suspended wooden platform.  Wooden benches lined two sides of the deck, but I preferred to stand and admire the view.

Below me, the Charente looked a murky brown torrent.  I looked up at the thick wires above me, appraising their worthiness.  I didn’t fancy a dunking mid-channel.

I need not have worried.  The bridge operator rang a small bell to signify that he was ready to depart, and we were off at a smooth, sedate, dignified progress; one bank of the Charente gradually receding as quickly as the other bank was being obtained.  In less than two minutes, we were across.

And what did I do on the far back of the Charente?

Absolutely nothing.  I stayed on the transporter bridge, and let it bring me straight back again.

© E. C. Glendenny

E. C. Glendenny doesn’t know whether she’s coming or going.