The metallic sounds of his work are easily swallowed by the vast morning air. First the solid heaviness of hammer against chisel then, in quick succession, the light hollow clink of chisel against slate. The rhythm of light tapping is interrupted only by a deliberate breath to blow away residual dust, revealing the half-carved letter underneath. Immediately, the tapping resumes; occasionally accompanied by the sniffing of a leaky nose – consequence of the festival chill. Working in the cold has hardened his thick fingers and dry white cracks contrast with the dark skin of his hands. Still, he works steadily. Another blow of dust and then a step back to assess. A glance to check for potential customers, a sigh at the sight of the empty stall, and then back to work. Hammer and Chisel tap, tap, tap. The morning has been slow.