This morning I thought to count the bridges that the train passes beneath in the four miles between Eaglescliffe and Middlesbrough.
There are four of dirty dark red brick, two supporting metal spans and two older, brick-arched, with black-edged parapets above.
Five are concrete, changing with the weather from palest sun-dried hot-bleached grey, to dirty, post-roast dishwater.
And the green painted girders of the Newport Bridge are splendid - but less so since its centrepiece was screwed into immobility.
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