Nearly a year ago, I made a pilgrimage to Wayland’s Smithy. I really didn’t know what to expect. In my mind, it’s a holy place. Yes, I know it’s a Neolithic burial chamber. I know it originally had nothing to do with the Anglo-Saxon fairy smith. And yet, it now has his name. His mythology began as an accrual over the stones, but now has seeped into the masonry of folk memory.
In the tomb, with growing horror I rifled through hoodie pockets, jacket pockets, sweater pockets and finally my Druid bug-out bag in search of some appropriate offering for the Smith. My shoulder brushed the passageway, and again echoes of hammer and iron and anvil floated across my mind.