Forge

MAYBE it is the attraction to the flame.

In the years before PassiveHouse design began its elimination from the Irish house, the open fire was great. The way it cast shadows around the room. It provided both sound and vision which was often better than that offered by the television. For those who remember the days of electricity strikes, the blackouts were almost awaited as it increased the enjoyment and appreciation of the fire.

Which of us has not jumped over a little outside fire or passed our finger through a candle flame?

MAYBE it is the admiration of a trade.

I remember at the Cork Summer Show last year watching a blacksmith get a horseshoe ready – the heat from the fire; the gloves; the tongs for holding the metal; the strength in the arms. They were all new to this city boy.

I think that I prefer the use of the word ‘craft’ to ‘trade’ for the skill – it definitely captures the expertise and end product much better.

MAYBE it is a factor of my liking for thing past.

An admiration for a time when things were sourced locally. An appreciation for the individual bespoke piece when we now have a limited range of choice.

OR MAYBE, it is just that I have seen reference to the Blacksmith and his forge in a number of different places on my travels recently that prompted this blog to follow the one from Gort.

My fire is extinct,
And my forge is decayed,
By the side of the bench
My old vice it is laid.  

My anvil and hammer
Lie gathering dust,
My powerful bellows,
have lost all their thrust  

My coal is now spent
My irons all gone,
My last nail’s been driven,
And my day’s work done.