If the English Village was severely depleted, London Bridge, by contrast, looked surprisingly well. Studying old postcards, it had always appeared rather dowdy to me. But freed from the confines of a smoky hugger-mugger cityscape, Rennie's neoclassical crossing seemed regal, majestic even, under a blazing midday Arizona sun. Compellingly, the stonework still bears smudges of soot and patches of graffiti – some legibly dating from the time of the Blitz. All of which rather poignantly attests to the bridge's distinguished service in the smoke. And in such intense heat, there's pleasing surreality to spying a manufacturer's casting mark at the base of a lamp that reads: "T Potter & Sons, South Moulton St W".
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