Millstreet.ie

Dia is Mhuire díobh go léir a chairde and welcome to my report.

Monday June 20, and beautiful sun drenched day to herald in the longest day of the year. The turf is drying  rapidly in the bog, making up for a late start and there is a vast increase in the number of patrons seeking peat fuel this year. Turf  has been the saving grace of our people for centuries. Apart from giving employment it gave light and heat to the poorest of the poor. When oil was scarce during the 39/45 war we did our lessons by the light of the fire. From beginning to end turf gave exercise and hope to both man and beast who were involved in rescuing it from it’s bed of slush on mountains and flatlands. Turf was created when it built itself up over the centuries. The vegetation which grew on the boggy surface rotted down over the years and ever so slowly grew into tall banks ready for the day when man and shleán came to avail of it. The jelly-like surface held together only by a thin film of greenery. So bogs by nature are pretty inaccessible and in the old days the best help which was available to cope with it’s soft terrain was the humble ass. Men cut the turf and spread out on the ground to dry but getting it to hard ground by the roadside was in many cases done  by a donkey.   Creels or baskets strewn across the animal’s back were commonly used in the West of Ireland. A scene which featured in many a picture postcard, but not so around here, so homemade inventions were put together for the task. Day after day the nimble beast made the rounds from bank to roadside ferrying the precious turf on some sheet of tin or timber dray until the last ciraan was out.  To be collected later by a powerful horse and crib and brought  home. At home many turf sheds were placed a distance from the dwelling house, in a sort of effort to spare it. The word spare was applied to most things that time. Spare the turf,  a cranky man could be heard saying to the wife, Spare that turf, you were a long way from the bank when I was cutting it. But he still had to get his dinner. Once home the turf had to be brought into the house for the fire. So a jute or meal bag was the normal receptacle. Young lads were usually the ones for this task, at least it was in  our house.  As he headed off bag in hand he would go with the warning to bring the dry ones and as he filled his sack with sods  he had to do his best to obey orders, and you dare not give a back answer or a well placed clip in the ear could follow. Needless to say sods of turf got broken in transit, small pieces were known as Ciaraans, while more turned to dust and  was called turf bruss. Ciaraans were very welcome when the fire was bad. They were very like lumps of coal and they ignited very fast and always gave new life to a sulking hearth. On the other hand turf bruss or turf dust as some people called it was rarely used for anything. It’s hard for us now to imagine that the fuel which served us so well for centuries has now become a forbidden thing. It almost feels like the  betrayal of an old friend.

[read more …] “Eily’s Report – 21st June”