Black and grey shaded anvil tattoo on a forearm, photographed in front of a large steel anvil in a workshop.

Anvil tattoo on a forearm

Realism · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo shows a single anvil with a flat top, horn and waist, drawn in dark outlines. Grey shading gives the iron a metallic, slightly worn finish, with lighter highlights on the top surface and darker tones beneath. The arm is held out horizontally in front of a large anvil in a dim workshop.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit closer, the rain's coming under the awning again and I'll not shout over it. You want the story of the anvil at Hollin Cross? Then you'll need to hear about old Ned Strickland, who sold iron to every farm between here and the weir, and who never once in forty years let a customer touch his horn without paying for the privilege.

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The winter the river flooded, his forge went under two feet of brown water. The coal was ruined, the bellows had rotted, and his apprentice, a lanky girl called Idris Vane, wanted to go home to her mother's. Ned would not hear of it. He hauled that great anvil up onto a stack of oak rounds, the same rounds you can still see with the bark clinging to them, and told her iron keeps its voice even when the world drowns around it.

For nine days they worked under a tarpaulin in the drizzle, hammering out hinges and hoof-irons with the flat face gone grey with damp. Nobody came. Then on the tenth morning a carter stopped, his wheel stuck fast in the mud, and heard the ring of steel across the square. He asked whose anvil was singing. Ned told him it was not singing at all, only being struck properly for once.

Idris kept that anvil after he died. Every market day she still sets it on the same oak rounds, and when the rain blows sideways across the square she strikes the horn once, just so the carters know the forge is open. The carters look up from their wet reins and smile, and the rain keeps falling, and the iron rings on regardless.

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