There is something primal about hot black asphalt, watching as the boys with the black stuff lay down the roadway amidst clouds of smoke and the all-pervasive smell of hot tar.

There is an added air of excitement in Hatton tonight as folk begin to believe that the bridge will soon open.

As I watched the workmen for a while this morning – yes, there still is something of the little boy in me, fascinated at the tar laying! –  I thought what a pale imitation was the little road roller which they were using.  I thought back to the great big steaming, smoking monsters of my youth.  Steam rollers were something to behold!.   They were so big – or so it seemed in those days.  The noise was awesome;  the big flywheel spinning round, and the great beast spewing smoke out through its mighty lum.  Was there not always a bucket and a shovel handing at the back?  Maybe the modern rollers are easier to use, but they don’t have the magic of the monsters of my youth.

I remember that we juvenine spectators always seemed to get tar on our clothes or our bodies somewhere, much to the displeasure of our mothers.   Butter seemed to be the magic potion to remove tar, but I remember a lot of scrubbing too.

I kept well back this morning and I returned home free of tar!