I’m where boats take a break, and ropes get tied in place. I’m not a door, but you’ll hear pull in when you see my wooden face. What am I?

Steel veins stretching across vast lands, guiding iron beasts to distant towns, where whistles echo in the morning mist.

I can be Dutch or French, among others. Wheel or wedge, or grated for all that matters. I can have mold but don't throw me away. Not all mold is bad per se.

Grow in caves from the ceiling, Slow I am made by water dripping.

An island of survival But not one of land Where all animals go Amidst scorched sands