Just in time for Christmas there's a brand new concrete bridge crossing the Clarence, linking South Grafton with the big end of town.
Most people driving with their windows up and the air conditioning on would hardly care to reflect on the old steel trussed wonder, spanning the river just to their west.
That double decker first opened to traffic in 1932 and was cleverly designed to carry trains and motor cars. Where this bridge meets the northern bank a road on the top deck takes a sharp turn while the railway below goes in a straight line.
Trucks and buses used to pinch at this point during recent rush hours but last week's opening of the new bridge has relieved the twin river cities of that crazy nuisance.
Blocked traffic these days is a far cry from the kind of jams that occurred before the time of cattle trucks, when stockmen, their horses and dogs used to drove mobs of cranky Hereford cross to and from the saleyards on the south side, behind the Royal Hotel, through the desperate muddy bog that is now a tourist information centre, up onto the bridge and over the wide brown river to greener pastures.
Those brave men in charge of such an operation would have breathed a sign of relief as buildings thinned out and the small house yards with no fences disappeared in their dust. At last they could sit comfortable in the saddle and roll a smoke and consider the alluvial pastures that lay in front of them.
You see, crossing the bridge and droving a mob of wild cattle through a busy town was not always so free and easy.
Fred Morgan, a cattleman from Carnham, recalls taking a mob of 500 from Southgate into town and over the bridge to a store sale. This was 1951, and as a 17 year old he joined a crack crew that included Kevin Mulligan, Dave McLachlan and Joe Morgan.
The boss was Frank Berry, a hard headed bushie who bred the four and five year old bullocks, sons of cull cows; Hereford over Illawara dairy, that had never been off their home paddock.
"They just bred on," Mr Morgan remembered of Mr Berry's cattle. "Those old cows usually died in the paddock. The bullocks were big, with big horns, and had only ever met humans once and that was during branding time."
Very first thing out of the front gate and they galloped. Four or five bolted for a long waterhole and were so eager to make tracks that two were drowned under the weight of the others.
The mob settled, eventually. The good men all had excellent dogs, but at Great Marlow, the swift arrival of an Essex car caused commotion.
Mr Berry suggested to the driver he find a hiding place or risk losing the vehicle under a storm of hooves. "He took heed and found a gate," recalled Mr Morgan.
The bullocks were big, with big horns, and had only ever met humans once and that was during branding time
- Fred Morgan
The mob spent the evening at the Dobie Street dipyard and at four next morning they walked up to the bridge and over that grand steel span.
Easy enough, in spite of the sharp dog-leg on the top deck, but once free from the hemmed railings those bullocks bolted again in spite of the best efforts of Ray Kelly on a taffy horse.
Through the streets of South Grafton the road became lined with quaint timber homes, with wide verandahs. In places timbered structures were raised high off the ground to stay free from flood.
Most had pretty gardens, with colourful rose gardens - invisible in the early dawn. People didn't bother with fences in those days or if they did they were light and decorative affairs.
Those of this mob of cranky Hereford cross that found sweet greenery in the vegetable garden lingered for a while and others ran through the roses. Some frightened individuals found solace under raised homes, where one was scared away with a generous splash of hot washing water.
Beasts burst through the streets of South Grafton with one ending up in Dr Robinson's garden where he wouldn't come out, so was shot - with a few other cantankerous creatures who were all bled on the spot, before being trucked to the South Grafton abattoirs, where they were "put through the door".
Ivan Austen was another great stockman who had a brush with the bridge. The first was at its official opening, four months to the day after the ribbon was cut on the Sydney Harbour bridge.
Mr Austen took two days to come from Buccarumbi Station, riding one grey horse and leading two others. It was his intention to play the role of Francis Edward de Groot and cut the ribbon early, but it never came to pass.
Mr Austen's real test with the iron causeway involved a mob 800 going heading north towards Gordon Brook Station. They were moved towards the bridge in the quiet of one night, the silence broken by the cries of men, horses and dogs as they encouraged the collection to walk.
So, on this early morning with no traffic about, Irving Austin and a team of other stockmen pushed the beasts across until they jammed at the sharp bend.
Whips were cracking and dogs were biting, recalls Irving's son Bob, who runs cattle of his own at Chambigne and Glen Innes.
One big bull, feeling his oats, skittered with all the ruckus and jumped up atop the steel railing, about a metre wide, and walked ahead to get around.
He came to a stop, and not because of the whip cracking or the dogs barking but to enjoy the view, looking down at the river so far below and then, turning his head, he jumped back into the mob!
