In the town where I grew up there used to be a rickety old low level bridge made of big old chunks of wood. It would always drown in a passing flood and the planks of wood would jump like piano keys every time a car hurried across it.

The low level bridge wasn’t far from the farm my folks used to own and somewhere in my draw of photos from childhood there’s a black and white photo of it taken on my dad’s old Canon camera.

As I was contemplating what to call this blog on a holiday in Byron Bay in 2011, I passed over a bridge that reminded me of that rickety relic from my childhood.

I called this blog Low Level Bridge in honour of that memory and, for more selfish reasons, so that every time I log in to post a story I experience the rush of nostalgia that makes me smile.

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