Ah yes... the romance of an open fire..... coals glowing, logs crackling, the fragrance of woodsmoke on the evening air.....






So why is it all I remember is the burn spots on the hearth rug (and once, the cat); the stench of smoke when the wind was in the wrong direction; the lugging of mammoth amounts of coal from the coalshed to the front room; and the inevitable sweeping up of the gritty bits that fell off; the splinters got from carrying logs in from the wood box at the bottom of the garden (as geographically far from the house door as possible and still be in the same road); the scraping out of the ashes the following morning followed by the sweeping up of the floor where they fell out of the bucket; the hunt for a newspaper that wasn't still being perused to make twists to light; the disgruntled firemen that turned up at 7.00am one morning after someone left the doors open and the chimney caught fire.....

Yes... aren't real fires lovely - WHEN SOMEONE ELSE IS DEALING WITH THEM!

LTS