Finding ‘Poohsticks Bridge’
MY CAR broke down last week in a very inopportune location, just after the sharp bend in the road close to the gates to Gosford House. I had come from the Aberlady direction after dropping off my teenage daughter at Muirfield Riding Therapy, where she volunteers.
I had my young son and his younger friend with me, and all was good as we sang songs as we drove back to the ‘Pans.
Just before I reached the bend, my car started to splutter and soon lost power. About a hundred metres or so after the bend, the car gave up.
There we were, in what was a precarious situation, as cars were coming round the bend as if it were a grand prix racetrack. I knew I needed to get the kids out of the vehicle, as well as my dog Ceilidh, and phone the police to alert them to the hazard.
When such things happen, it helps to give thanks for the good things. One was the weather because it was reasonably warm and sunny. Another was our location by the beach. So it could have been much worse.
The police assured me they would arrive as soon as possible and to remain as close to my car as was safe, so I searched for such a location and found it: a small wooden bridge that crossed over Harestanes Burn.
It was the perfect place to keep Ceilidh secure, as I couldn’t let her off the lead. She’s a collie and she seems to think it’s her responsibility to herd cars and any other vehicle that happens to pass by. So I tied her lead to the bridge to keep her safe.
The kids started asking questions. “Why are we waiting here?”
“We are waiting for the police, so they can help us?”
“When will they be here?”
“Soon, I hope.”
“I’m bored.”
“Me too.”
I looked around for something to entertain them. The usual games, such as I Spy, didn’t impress.
Then I realised.
“Of course!” I said to myself, then said to the kids, “let’s play Poohsticks!”
My son’s young friend didn’t seem to know about this game or hadn’t remembered. I quickly showed him how to play and almost instantly he was hooked.
It was a perfect place for it, with dead and dry sticks lying by the path, which is part of the John Muir Way.
Pretty soon, the boys became quite competitive, choosing ever bigger sticks and watching them race under the bridge. A couple of walkers paused and spoke to us, and the kids enthusiastically explained the rules of the game.
Thankfully it didn’t take long for the police to arrive, but we were so engrossed in the game that we initially didn’t see them.
Suddenly, a police officer was standing by us on the path, a bit of an unexpected and random sight for the walkers. The kids explained to the officer the rules of the game and offered him a chance to play. But he understandably had other things to prioritise and took my car keys.
He couldn’t start the car, so he and his colleague heroically pushed the car all the way to the main entrance of Gosford House, so it was no longer on the road causing an obstruction. I don’t think that sight will ever leave me, or my admiration for their determination to get it off the road. The officer returned and gave me my keys back. I thanked him but forgot to ask his name. I still had my eyes on the kids to keep them safe, as they were still engrossed in their game.
They played non-stop for the next half an hour, with no sign that they were getting bored with it. Ceilidh looked on. For her, sticks are for throwing and fetching, and the sight of so many of them being dropped into water to flow under a bridge must have seemed a waste of good sticks. Poor Ceilidh, I couldn’t let her off the lead to play fetch because she’d have gone for the cars. She just had to watch in bewilderment as the kids laughed and jumped for joy as they waited for their sticks to appear from under the bridge, then float towards the nearby sea.
Maybe this isn’t worth writing about, but if you’ve got this far, let me tell you why I have. I’d already had a tough day before my car broke down, and when it did, it seemed as if the sky was falling in on me. It felt like the last straw. But what was initially a highly stressful situation was turned into a magical moment by the kids’ laughter. They weren’t just playing Poohsticks: they were reminding me of the joy of simple things.
And so I joined them with a new spirit and let my stress float down the burn along with my sticks.
In the end, all was good. The superhero of the day, apart from the police, was my wife and we eventually made it home. But not until after a final game of Poohsticks, then just one more, and another.
My son’s friend told his parents all about it: the broken-down car, the beach, the police and, of course, the game of Poohsticks at the bridge. He wanted to do that again the next time, he said, it was great fun. My son agreed.
“Can we break down there again?” he asked me, later in the day.
“Maybe not break down,” I suggested, “but we can walk to the bridge from Aberlady or Longniddry.” He seemed happy with that. “What’s the bridge called?” he asked. “I don’t think it has a name,” I replied.
“It does now,” my son said: “Poohsticks Bridge.”