At this early point in the autumn term, timetables are learned, bits of new uniform inevitably lost and we begin to consider once again, our children’s relationship with school.
I began thinking about this last point, having just finished reading about London’s ill-fated ‘Garden Bridge’. The dream to build a pedestrian, tree-filled bridge across the River Thames was first imagined over a decade ago. Millions of pounds and goodness knows how many planning meetings later, the idea was scrapped.
But bridge-building has many parallels with education and what we do here at LWC.
There’s something irresistibly magnetic about a bridge. Not only the architecture, but the very idea of it. It’s a promise in steel or stone that screams: “Yes, there’s a way across! (and no, you don’t have to swim).”
It’s a handshake between two sides. A bold leap across uncertainty. A quiet show of confidence.
Don’t get me wrong, the first bridges weren’t exactly grand. Picture a tree accidentally falling across a stream; almost nature’s version of a shrug. But humans saw it and thought, ‘We can do better.’ The ancient Mesopotamians bundled reeds, packed mud and made something with purpose. They weren’t pretty, but they worked and that’s the first rule of engineering, isn’t it?
Then came the Romans, with beauty and functionality. Offerings like the Pont du Gard in France remain standing after nearly 2000 years. Fast forward a few centuries and bridges became more whimsical. The Rialto in Venice exhibits curves with the kind of grace that makes you forgive its occasional structural creaks. With steel came San Francisco’s Golden Gate, gleaming like a pop star on a world tour. The Brooklyn Bridge gives off ‘Don’t mess with me’ energy and the Millau Viaduct in France practically levitates.
These are bridges with attitude. They know they’re being photographed.
Education is a bridge. Less photogenic maybe, but no less vital. It carries a child from curiosity to confidence, from confusion to clarity. And what of the teachers? They are the quiet engineers. Equal parts architect, magician and tightrope walker. They don’t only help to build the bridge; they walk it with you (often with white board marker on their fingertips and conviction in their eyes). The path isn’t always linear and occasionally you need to pause for reflection, taking in just what you’ve managed to overcome and how much closer and more achievable the other side now seems.
The real beauty of course, should never be the bridge itself (although I still have a soft spot for them). The actual focus should be what has been crossed. The swirling waters beneath are where the story lies – uncertainty, growth, challenge, transition. The path trodden through it, the progress made, all aided by the structure that quietly enables, without making a fuss about doing so.
Our recent merger with St Neot’s Prep didn’t involve building a bridge between the two schools. Both were so philosophically aligned, we could practically meet on the edge of our respective riverbanks and high five. The crossing is now seamless. No construction required and as pupils move through the schools, whether joining for the first time or stepping into a new year, they cross their own bespoke bridges. From childhood to adolescence, fear to confidence, from ‘will I be alright?’ to ‘yes, I belong here.’
In a world often preoccupied with putting up walls, maybe our best lesson is to build more bridges. Of every kind.
Yours,
Adam
