Situated upon the windswept coast of Portsea, at the southernmost tip of the Mornington Peninsula in Victoria, Australia, the site known as London Bridge was once crowned by a magnificent natural arch—an enduring testament to the erosive power and artistry of the sea. Fashioned over countless centuries, the arch stood as both a geological marvel and a cherished local landmark, drawing visitors to behold its stark beauty and the thunderous majesty of the ocean that sculpted it.
The great arch succumbed to the inevitable work of time and tide, collapsing in the early twenty-first century and thus altering the visage of the coastline forever. Yet the place remains imbued with a kind of solemn grandeur. Where once stone spanned sky, now only remnants of its former glory stand—weathered, noble, and quiet.
I used to frequent this place often, long before I began to spend my weekends in the company of Joel. In those days, I found in the solitude of London Bridge a peculiar and profound kind of solace. Though the arch itself has long since fallen, the sea, ever faithful to its art, continues its delicate work. At high tide, waters surge into the heart of what remains—a rocky cavernous bowl—filling it with a shimmering pool of seawater that dances and glistens in the sunlight. It is a sight of singular, haunting beauty.
Joel, however, regarded the place with far less affection. To him, it was barren and uninspiring, its charms too subtle, its colours too subdued. I suppose we all have our own preferences. Where I perceived wild poetry, he found only a muted coast. And yet, I cannot help but feel that therein lies its power: in the understated, in the stripped-down silence of land and sea at meeting point.
Though the bridge itself is no more, the spirit of London Bridge endures—etched not only in the weathered stone and the tides that whisper through its remains, but also in the hearts of those who once stood before it and felt, if only for a moment, the immensity of the earth’s quiet grandeur.
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