SWINDON is not noted for its bridges, generally, but there is one that has a special place in my heart – and now that heart is breaking because they are going to pull it down.

For me, it ranks higher than Sydney Harbour Bridge, which I once stood on top of, and even higher than the magnificent Forth Rail Bridge, which I finally visited for the first time recently.

I have a medical condition called bridge geekiness, which you can get at any age, but is worst in men of a certain age.

So we went to the Forth Bridge while on a recent trip to Scotland, not because we needed to cross it or get from A to B, which non-geek folk think bridges are for, but just to stand and look – and take about a hundred photographs, of course.

If you want to come round and look at them some time, along with my other bridge pictures, let me know. It will take a few hours.

The Forth Bridge trip involved stopping twice to take photographs from afar, and at both locations we bumped into another chap of about my age, who obviously had the most acute form of bridge geekiness.

When we finally got to the bridge, we spotted them going into a restaurant that has a spectacular view of it, so he could gaze at it, instead of his wife, while eating his dinner. Even I felt sorry for her.

However, my affection for world famous engineering marvels is overshadowed by a much more modest one on our doorsteps – the footbridge that crosses the main line between Gypsy Lane and Stratton Road.

When we were kids we called it the Iron Bridge, and I have happy memories of going to it, especially in the summer holidays, to watch the trains.

I should point out, at this stage, that I am not, and have never been, a trainspotter, but only because I was born too late for the steam era, and can’t see the point of writing down numbers of trains that all look the same.

Trainspotting still goes on at the bridge, and not all of it by children.

I know because I have struggled up and down it many times this year, with my bike.

That is a real chore, even though, some years ago, they installed a low-tech but clever device to help – a trough to place your front wheel in as you push it up the steps.

You still might have seen me cursing the bridge because of the effort involved, and this only goes to show that you should appreciate things while they are there, because one day they’ll be gone.

The other day I discovered the old Iron Bridge has to come down because it is too low for the impending electrification of the line, and they are going to replace it with something more suitable.

I know sometimes there can be no room for sentimentality in the face of progress, but I’m sure there are plenty of other overgrown schoolboys – and even girls – who will see it as another chunk of their childhood being swept away.

And the demolition of the bridge now presents me with three challenges.

Although it must be worth a fortune in scrap, I am going to try to persuade the contractors to let me have a piece of it. Then I will have to get it home on my bike.

And finally, the biggest task of all – to convince my wife that if there is one thing every garden needs, it’s a rusty old bit of an iron bridge.