Boglands to Ireland

Turf cutting is a vanishing art with coal, gas, and oil, being the pre-dominant source of domestic energy today. Nobody wants to head for the bog anymore for the backbreaking toil that was all part of the not too distant tradition. Machines dig most turf that is produced today.

I remember heading off to the bog with my father and neighbours, usually in the month of May with lengthening evenings, sunny days, and a light wind to put a crust on the slippy wet sods. We would all work together, from sun up to late in the evening when I used to retire to bed, my bones weary and feet hot from trekking on the coarse heather all day.

The Highlight of the day of course was lighting the fire in a sheltered corner and drinking the strong tea with the distinctive taste of smokey heather. It didn't finish there either, there was always a story or a joke and even the odd song sung, and as a child, wished it would go on all day so we wouldn't have to go back to work. We were close to nature in the bog. The birds and wild animals were always reminding us we were not as isolated as we might have thought we were. The skylark would rise suddenly out of the heather into the sky and suspend itself in mid air; letting us amateur meteorologists know the weather would remain fine, or if we disturbed a hare he would dart from his peaceful throne in the heather and frighten the life out of us.

"Leave me in an Irish bog where the curlews softly call,
The woodcock on the heather bank keeps watch and ward for all,
Let there be a cabin warm with a turf fire burning neat,
And smoke ascending to the sky and the smell of Irish peat".
copyright © Paddy O'Brien