An Cheárta: The Forge

All I know is a door into the dark,.
Outside, old axles and iron hoops rusting;
Inside, the hammered anvil's short pitched ring,
The unpredictable fantail of sparks
Or hiss when a new shoe toughens in the water,. 
The anvil must be somewhere in the centre,
Horned as a unicorn, at one end and square,
Sat there immoveable, an altar
Where he expends himself in shape and music,
Sometimes, leather-aproned, hairs in his nose
He leans out on the jamb , recalls a clatter
of hoofs where traffic is flashing in rows;
Then grunts and goes in, with a slam and a flick
To beat real iron out, to work the bellows.
Seamus Heaney
Isn't it amazing how Seamus Heaney has a poem for everything! The old forge just outside Durrus has had a facelift and a rather fine painted board placed on its exterior wall. I think there are four old forges on the peninsula, all now derelict but all once vital and bustling. There is still a blacksmith though and he has a private forge..
A cold damp and windy day. This morning Himself completed the insurance (possibly) and I've sorted out flights (possibly). Then I went across the mountain to have the hair restored in Schull, all very quiet there as everywhere starts to close for the winter.