Shoeing the Horse
As children we often called to the old Forge where Uncle James was the village blacksmith. We were delighted to be allowed to stand by the door watching proceedings.It was familiar to see the Horses waiting in the lane,placid bays and greys,broad shouldered chestnuts and magnificent whites.Some of them could be flighty and temperamental at times,but if anyone could be put them at ease it was Uncle James.Working in the forge was more than just a job to him,it was in its own way a calling,a family tradition that spanned the generations. The interior of the forge was dark and cluttered,the sunlight slanting through the open door on bright spring days so that it seemed as if the light and dark were ready to embrace. When we stood at the door,the workings of the forge seemed to have a kind of magic about them, the rhythm of the hammer on anvil filling the space,the sparks like shooting stars fanning to the dark corners.A bright fire burned in the old hearth and on very cold days with Uncles...