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One evening last week I was in Stockton for the opening of our Infinity bridge across the Tees. As it happens, the bridge crosses the river more or less at the spot where Maggie Thatcher went for her infamous 鈥渨alk in the wilderness鈥� in 1987. There she met, unscripted, an unemployed man called Eric Fletcher. Barging through security, he waved a folder at her saying he鈥檇 made 鈥渕ore than 1,000 job applications in this area alone鈥� in the past six months.

Mrs Thatcher retorted that times had changed so he would have to retrain because there was no need for his sort of skills any more. Their exchange made headline news.

A little chastened, after crossing the post-industrial desolation that was once thronged by steel-makers Head Wrightson, the Iron Lady announced that the banks of the Tees would become the site of the biggest urban regeneration programme anywhere in Europe 鈥� and 20 years on, it鈥檚 flourishing. Our bridge is slap in the middle.

When we did the competition, we asked the locals in what was once the second-poorest town in England, 鈥淚f the bridge was a car, what would it be?鈥� After a little thought, one replied, 鈥淚t would be a Ford Mondeo 鈥� with alloy wheels,鈥� by which he meant he wanted value for money 鈥� complete with that little Stockton touch of class. The community might have become impoverished, but it hadn鈥檛 lost its pride.

The Iron Lady announced that the banks of the Tees would become the biggest regeneration programme anywhere in Europe 鈥� and 20 years on, it鈥檚 flourishing

I call it 鈥渙ur鈥� bridge, but of course it isn鈥檛 really. I don鈥檛 know exactly how many people were involved in its design, but we know of the 27 in our office, and another 100-odd in 23 other companies. And then there are the 400 who made all the bits in factories, put them together on site, and sat in the contractor鈥檚 office (putting together the claim, I am tempted to say, but that would be a bit harsh). Let鈥檚 say there were 500 people altogether who have reason to say proudly:

鈥淚 had a part in that.鈥� My little sons call it 鈥淒addy鈥檚 bridge鈥�, and it鈥檚 the same for all the other dads and mums.

So it could be mum鈥檚 bridge 鈥� but that鈥檚 not really the point either. A bridge is not the property of the designers, or the builders, or even the commissioners. It鈥檚 not even the property of the Iron Lady. Beautiful bridges amaze 鈥� and then become a backdrop.

Ever since our ancestors stood on the bank of a river and wondered how to get across, bridges have held a fascination for human beings. Wrestling with the forces of nature and all that good stuff. It has been no mean feat to bring home the bridge in its slender and delicate form. We can take pleasure from that, but then we move on. But we don鈥檛 have to live with the outcome.

In time I hope they forget about us, and the bridge becomes so familiar that it is impossible for them to imagine a time when it wasn鈥檛 there

As darkness fell last week, slowly at first and then in a great flood, many thousands of Stocktonites walked along the river banks to the site and waited in high spirits for their time with the bridge to begin. It was cold and windy but still they came out en masse. Nigel Simpson, 42, from the town, gave it a confident thumbs-up. 鈥淭he area along here is definitely improving and the bridge makes a big difference for the town.鈥� His 11-year-old son Ben said: 鈥淚 think it鈥檚 different and really interesting.鈥� His eyes opened a lot wider when the free-runners Katy Whittaker and Shane Ohly, in sticky boots, scaled the arches 40m above the water, holding aloft red flares, the wind howling around them. Their daredevil actions were beamed from their helmets onto giant TV screens. I mention the names of these people almost at random because the bridge, an inanimate object, clearly animated them. Remarkably it even animated two of the project managers, who each said to me, 鈥淭his bridge has given me confidence to take the next step in my life 鈥� a career move that I never ever would have made if I hadn鈥檛 been through this鈥�.

All through, we hoped the bridge would earn a place in the Stockton community. We hoped it would help them rediscover optimism and celebrate the joys in life. Gradually, we hoped it would become part of their cultural landscape, and would change from 鈥渙ur鈥� bridge to 鈥淪tockton鈥檚鈥�. To be honest, in time I hope they forget about us, and the bridge becomes so familiar that it is impossible for them to imagine a time when it wasn鈥檛 there. As a designer, to see a bridge change from a pencil sketch into its completed form is one of life鈥檚 great pleasures. To witness all those Stockton bods, big and little, walking excitedly towards their bridge out of the wilderness as darkness falls over the Cleveland Hills beyond is something else altogether better. I hope Eric Fletcher was there to see it.