Crossing the river

Source A: an original contemporary non-fiction-style account.

The new footbridge shortened my walk to work by eleven minutes. For the first week, that was the fact I repeated to everyone. The bridge was wide, smooth and furnished with lights that came on before dusk. No longer did I have to follow the traffic to the road crossing upstream. I could leave home later and arrive less irritated. It seemed an uncomplicated improvement, the sort of public project whose value could be measured with a watch.

On Friday I stopped halfway across. An angler below was rearranging his equipment with the slow concentration of someone not trying to get anywhere. I realised that I had crossed the river ten times without properly looking at it. From the bridge, the current made long pale folds around the piers, opening and closing like fabric shaken out. I leaned on the rail until a cyclist rang a bell behind me. The bridge had given me a shorter route, but I had used the saved time chiefly to avoid being there.

I still appreciate the eleven minutes. They matter when I am late or when rain turns every pavement into an argument with my shoes. Yet I have begun leaving at the old time and pausing above the water. The bridge's success is not only that it removes an inconvenience. It also offers a place from which to notice something the journey used to conceal. I would not want the longer route restored. I would like to stop behaving as though the best journey is always the one that disappears most quickly.

Source B: an original letter in a nineteenth-century voice. This is a period-voice simulation, not an archival document.

Dear brother, the bridge is at last open, and I crossed it yesterday among a crowd determined to test every inch. You would have laughed at our solemn inspection of the railings, as though the iron would disclose its strength through being stared at. For years we have depended on the ferry. When the river rose, the crossing ceased; when the boatman was elsewhere, one waited and hoped that one's business could wait also. The bridge permits a person to make an appointment without first consulting the water.

I do not forget the pleasures of the old passage. There was time in the boat to speak to neighbours, and the low view of the banks made even familiar trees appear newly important. But such recollections are easiest to enjoy when one is not carrying a basket in the rain. My sister once lost a day's wages because the ferry could not run. No conversation upon a fine evening restored that money. Those who praise uncertainty as picturesque generally have less at stake in being late.

From the centre of the bridge I watched the boat drawn up at its landing. I felt a pang for an occupation that had served us so long, and I hope its keeper will find another use for his knowledge of the river. Still, I cannot wish the bridge away in order to preserve my preferred picture of the place. We shall have to make opportunities for conversation without requiring everyone to endure the same delay. Improvement need not forbid remembrance, but remembrance should not become a toll demanded from those who must get to work.

Use the whole of both sources. Compare the writers’ perspectives on the new bridges and how their methods convey those perspectives. Support your comparison with evidence from both sources.