Open Writing

As I sit in my front garden, I have a wonderful view way across Bradford. Early in the morning the city's lights twinkle like stars in the heavens.

In the fields directly in front of my house there are a several horses from a local riding stables, galloping around, apparently happy to be enjoying temporary freedom.

As watched them my mind went back to the time when, as a child, I lived on Leeds Road. Almost every day I would take the time to visit the local farrier’s and watch the blacksmith make shoes for the horses. I watched as he pumped the bellows in the forge to brighten up the fire. When he was satisfied that he had the right temperature he placed a couple horse shoes in amongst the glowing coke.

Soon the metal shoes were glowing. Tiny sparks emitted from them as the blacksmith picked them up, one at a time, with long-handled tongs. The metal shoes were then placed on an anvil and shaped. My ears rang as the hammer hit the metal, and also from time to time the anvil, though I never found out why the blacksmith did that.

While this was going on the horse that had been brought by its owner to have new shoes fitted stood quite calmly, ignoring all around it as it tucked into the oats that had been provided. When the new shoes had been shaped, the blacksmith took one over to the horse. Taking hold of one of the horse’s legs and placing it between his legs, he proceeded to fit the red-hot shoe on the hoof. The horse appeared quite content to let the blacksmith get on with his work.

The smell of burning as the shoe met the hoof wafted past my nostrils. It was not too unpleasant. I wondered why the horse didn’t scream out. It was later that the blacksmith explained that it was just like humans having their fingernails clipped, There was no pain. I thought about this. I certainly would not have fancied having nails in my feet. I knew what it was like to have a nail protruding on the inside of my shoe. To actually have someone banging nails in with a hammer, seemed a bit over the top.

For safety reasons, I was not allowed near the horses in case they kicked out. The blacksmith told me that he had been kicked several times. I was allowed to stand inside the doorway to watch the work. In the winter months the blacksmith allowed me nearer the forge so that I could keep warm. Sometimes he even let me pump the bellows.

I enjoyed my visits. I was asked if I wanted to be a blacksmith when I grew up. I said that although I enjoyed my visits and liked being around horses, I didn’t want to end up as dirty every day as the blacksmith was because that would mean too many baths.

I was taking my blind aunt to the shops one Saturday morning. As we neared the blacksmith’s she stopped. She told me that when she had her sight, she used to frequently watch the blacksmith at work. Now that she could no longer see him the smell from the burning hooves revived memories and put a smile on her face.

If you think my stories are true, then they probably are.

If you think my stories are fiction, then just relax and enjoy the tales

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