BOG TROTTING WITH HARRY BRADLEY

As part of a big economy drive and a desire to contribute in some way to home comforts, I  decided that we would save turf.  This is a big deal for someone who was reared by the sea and who had only a romantic ‘John Hind’ view of saving turf. 

My parents’ generation waxed lyrical about the smell, taste of tea and soda bread and méhil with the neighbours.   There was a great story told by a friend of my parents, Mike Smith.  At school, the teacher would write a big heading on the blackboard which would be the theme for an essay.  The heading would be written in large capitals on the top third of the page and the remainder of the page laid waiting for accommodation of the story.  So, one afternoon,  the heading put on the board was ‘A Day On The Bog’.  The following day the teacher asked Mike to read his story; Mike stood to attention and in a loud voice read ‘A Day On The Bog, by Mike Smith’... Yesterday after school we went to the bog.  The day came wet and we came home.  The end.

Well, my story is not so short.  Firstly, My Reason For Living was totally against the idea, obviously he had first hand experience of what was to come.  However, whilst having coffee after dinner with our neighbour Jamsie Cox, I continued to explain my case.  My Reason For Living, showing signs of acquiescence muttered that as this was my first time to ‘rare’ turf, I should opt for a reasonable amount, ‘ok, so’, sez I, ‘what’s reasonable’ as I prepared to phone the machine man, ‘ah, I donno, maybe 40 to 50 hoppers would do ya’.  With that, Jamsie spat out his pipe and doubled with the laughter, only for him I would have placed the order.  Apparently that would be enough turf for our townland!

So , the turf was cut, and every opportunity I got, Jude (my gorgeous dog) and I went up to ‘foot’ the turf.  I learned that I was doing Kildare footings; i.e. 2 upon 2, upon, 2 upon 2 sods of turf stacked like the frame of a sky scraper in diminutive form.  The peace was wonderful but man o man, did it rain.  Eventually I tried to make small clamps of turf in areas where the ground was not so wet.  Some of those sods of turf I knew by name they were handled so often. 

Some evenings, My Reason For Living would bring me over to Dickie Beirnes’ Emporium for a well deserved gin and tonic.  Dickie offered me crates of empty bottles, ‘for what’ sez I, ‘to bring home the liquid turf in’ sez he.  Others congratulated me on the great bank of ‘spadá’ I was saving, ‘what’s spadá sez I, ‘tis so light, ‘twill fly home’.  I soldiered on.  My dog and I braved wind, rain and ridicule.  I met my neighbours coming and going.  Among them John Carty, his son James and Harry Bradley.  I would have preferred if they let me do the turf and they would play a tune, the meitheal of music would be better heat than any turf. 

Harry, like myself was a new recruit to the bog.   One evening, my father in law, a knowledgeable man, advised me that he would like to view the turf.  Like all great thinkers, he learned his craft by musing and mulling over problems from the sanctity of the church or his armchair.  It is some time since he saved turf, but he has had at least 40 more years experience than I. 

The wind howled as we squelched our way through the footings and every now and then I could hear my father in law tish, tishing.  Turning to face him, I saw with great relief that Harry too had ventured out and beckoned him over, ostensibly to meet my father in law.  Mistake.  My father in law now had an audience of two and secure in the knowledge that the other man on the bog would be in complete harmony with his expostulations he proceeded to point out the bad spread ground, spadá and culminated by saying that if he had been consulted in the first instance, there would have been no turf cut here.  Harry stood, his beeny hat down near his eyes and his fleece zipped up to his chin, his dark brown eyes inscrutable, putting his hands in his pocket he turned towards the car and said he was going to get his spade out of the boot, passing in front of me he muttered out of the side of his mouth, ‘and I won’t be coming any where near you with it’