Ballagawne Smithy

The  Old  Ballagawne Smithy still stands, substantially and defiantly the same as when it was the domain of one Thomas Cain Esq., blacksmith.

Old Cain was all I ever heard on him, farrier, engineer, smith, and at least once, quite extraordinarily a most intricate and delicate sculptor. Picking a rose from the garden he modelled a perfect replica in sheet copper. Petals, leaves and stem, all delicately interlocking.

At the time of which I am speaking Tom Cain was as deaf as a post, and to say the least, somewhat inclined to impatience.

He manufactured all kinds of farm implements from ploughs to seed drills, also horse shoes, wheel rims and wrought iron gates, one of which still  hangs on the main entrance to Lonan Parish Church.

My father happened to be present when Cannon Quine ordered that gate Mr. Cain inquired as to what exactly was required, and the Cannon in his deep, stentorian voice replied, “Oohh just something plain and simple.”

After the Cannon had left Tom Cain turned to my father and grunted in disgust, “What he really means is something cheap.”

During the ploughing season I would sometimes be sent down, after tea, with the “bar” of the plough to have it pointed ready for work  next day. Now there is something about a smithy on a dark winters night which seems to accentuate the sights and sounds and smells of the place, which in truth are evocative enough anyway. The hot iron glows more brightly, the anvils ringing and the savage roar and hiss as red hot steel is doused in the water troughs.

On this particular night there were two forges at work, Old Cain and his striker at one, and his two sons, Alan and Ralph, pointing plough steels at the other.

There were perhaps 6 or 7 older “Lads” lounging around the walls over toward the door, a couple of  senior men sitting in the back, and me in a corner to one side as befitted my junior status.

One moment I was comfortably relaxed, almost dozing, the next I was alert and tense, I was aware of a barking grunt from Old Cain and uneasy stirrings by the door. As I watched, Tom Cain drove the blade of a Number 14 coal shovel right into the heart of the forge, he never looked back but almost telepathically I understood what to expect. Frantic with fright I dived behind the bench in front of me, as he heaved that shovelful of white hot coke over his shoulder

In the event only one or two small cinders came anywhere near me but I had a clear view of the human log jam in the doorway as the wrath of God descended upon them, and the last one out got the flat of the blade across his shoulders.

I straightened up and swore in the presence of adults for the first time in my life, “What the Hell happened?”  I queried incredulously, and at least one octave too high.

“Matches!” He barked  “Matches!” and stamped off into the back.

I stood there completely baffled.

The apprentice was clearing out what remained of the fire, before resetting it he indicated a gudgeon lying on the anvil ” We were going to weld that but some smart guy must have tossed a match or two into the fire and you can’t weld when there’s sulphur about”. Then he added, “Be a while before any of those can show their faces in here again”

Mr. Thomas Cain was no man to trifle with.

David Kelly