It’s hard beat a hard day’s work in the bog

There is an end line in sight, the summer is almost here, the holidays are looming, the national schools almost done and a whole lot of outdoor fun lies ahead. The sporting season has moved into a beautiful time of the year; sunrise very early, sunset very late, daytime always nice. Yes we might sometimes have mist, yes we might sometimes have strong cool breezes, but we have no storms, no frost and no dark mornings. I sure plan to enjoy our beautiful countryside no matter what the weather.

Farming is also moving into a beautiful time of year, after a very long winter with months of hardship for cattle, man and beast, the turf needs to be saved, the silage needs to be cut, the sheep need to be shorn, the vegetable garden needs digging, the fields need to be topped; endless amount of outside jobs to keep the youngsters busy during their summer holidays. Each year, some things never change, with the first sign of a sunny day the bog will be visited.

The teenagers of today deserve some credit, they don’t have it easy, running up a constant uphill, from morning to night, with demands of school, study, sport, jobs, and all of this must be done while looking good, being seen to be cool all of the time and every day the phone demands must be met.

The pressure from peers, teachers, parents and social media, a rush exists always, and so when a few young lads want to head for the bog on the first few days of their summer holidays, or when they eagerly want to work the land with their elders, or to sheer the sheep with their grandfathers, or to build a fence for the garden, one must admire their interest, support the challenge and find the balance between safety, what’s possible and what’s going to last!

After a week of working through endless demands, errands and ever ending chores, Friday finally arrives. Everyone is talking of plans for the night and the weekend and while I am exhausted and my mind boggled, I’m so looking forward to the endless days of adventure that lie ahead. I call in home and told tomorrow’s promised nice so the bog is suggested. I jump at the chance, what better way to clear the mind. I return home to tell the younger generation, they too are delighted. We’re off on a different adventure tomorrow; one could assume it’s that they will get spoilt, that they will get a few bob or maybe that they genuinely want to prove to themselves they can do it.

A beautiful fresh new June morning arrives and there’s a busy day ahead. First though there’s an easy slow, long jog this morning and I head for Brown’s Island. A different mind-set exists this morning, a very relaxed aura about me, no need to think about endless chores that normally lie ahead in preparation for the week, no need to think about the cooking and baking for Monday, no need to think about fitting in a long mountain run, no need to think about meetings, classes or which way the car needs to turn. Instead I see the animals, I hear the birds, my mind begins to reflect on a wonderful year. When September comes around, one is full of ambition, enthusiasm, an eagerness to impart knowledge, to instil a focus, a motivation, a positivity in everyone around you, one works towards people’s goals, fulfilled in observing and assisting them achieve. The year passes quickly by but a break is needed, one needs to reflect, refresh and rezone the thinking into doing things for oneself.

I reach the island, in the middle of the bog, turf cut all around, some ready for turning, some not, some very early risers, some still asleep, some turf from last year remains, some not ready yet. I meander around the twisting roads, a blanket of brown immersed in yellows, greens and a glimmering of light blue. I hear the sounds – the birds, the wildlife, tractors and animals – and smell the fresh cut grass and feel the marshy underfoot. I pass our plot, my father already in action, over for a look, ensuring the turf is ready for us and also getting a head-start! I shout in “I’ll see you at 10”. He smiles and I head for home. The youngsters have the bikes out: “Grandad said if we cycle our legs won’t be sore tomorrow,” with the bike warming up the muscles on the way over and loosening them out the way home. It’s three miles to the bog, I hope he’s right.

The packed lunch, water and tea all packed, it could be a long day. My father’s era cycled to the bog, turned the turf, cycled home, played a match, cycled home again and the next day repeat. They have an endless energy and endurance that I admire. My generation experienced the bog but at a lighter pace and a lot of exploring, adventures and learning about nature was had. The younger generation now have a desire, a want to be able to do what their grandfathers’ did because it’s cool, it’s a way of showing their own strength. I watch, admire and anxiously await to see how this one will pan out.

The bikes are parked on the side of the road, an artic wind cuts across the bog, the turf dust blowing in the eyes. The yearly instructions given on how to make the grogeens of turf; two on the bottom, two across and two across the top again, with the strong breeze across the bog then drying out the sods. When one only comes here once a year you quickly forget the knack but it only takes a few attempts to get back into it.

My father flies ahead, the grogeens built to perfection in a straight line, ours back and over but built and that’s all that matters. My father, if watching me, would always correct and give advice, trying to instil the knack, him taking one’s time to do it right. I have other ideas about speed and getting through it quickly. I watch my own son and say nothing because he has developed his own way, now bigger and stronger than me and able to lift a few sods at once. The neighbouring bog owners begin to arrive, everyone chats to each other, commenting on the condition of the turf, the weather, whose is ready to be brought home. Because there is always an element of competition with these farming errands – who has the sheep shorn, who has the silage saved, who has the turf home, all of course before the Galway Races because that is holiday season and “Sure then the summer is nearly over”. Even though it’s only started they’re now talking about it ending.

The youth learn a lot by listening, observing, watching. They pick up some easier tricks and methods along the way, even telling their own parents how to turn the sods! A tractor pulls in, a friend of my son, and just like the older generation they stop to analyse, eye each other up and compare.

“How long are ye staying? I’ll give ye a hand later.” The same chats continue. It’s soon time for tea, I bring in the supplies, sandwiches, scones, buns, water and flask of tea, the milk left in a bog hole keeping it cool. We all sit for lunch on a dry grass patch and hungrily tuck into the most delicious food; the homemade cakes always taste better in the fresh air and the tea is a lifesaver when one is hungry and tired. We reminisce on older times, my father tells stories of past bog adventures, including of having a trailer of turf filled but because of wet soggy ground, the wheels sinking and the trailer of turf having to be unloaded to pull it out. The youth are horrified. We laugh, share stories and prepare for the second half of the day.

Everyone takes up their spot and a slow start is had, the legs have stiffened from sitting down and the bellies are full but we are all eager to plough on. The youth get praised for their hard work, resulting in no complaining but wondering who else they could go with when they have finished here. My mam, being wise, says an hour and that’s it; if one doesn’t too much the first day, one is able for the second day.

Her saying has always been that a day in the bog was better than a day shopping in Galway. As a young girl I could never figure this out, today I totally understand; to be free from technology, noise, roads, towns, and to hear the birds, to breathe the air, to feel healthy, to work outdoors, no traffic, no cars, no crowds. Little did I know that as youngsters we practiced mindfulness quite often while exploring drains around Brown’s Island.

The hour is up and we slowly walk to the bikes, a little hunched over from the back breaking stance of working with the turf. My son reminds me that the bikes will loosen us out. The younger ones take off, we gradually begin to move, our legs limbering slowly out. I look at the youth of today, their endless energy, determination and drive for success. I’m not sure our generation were as keen on the bog but sometimes absence makes the heart grow fonder. I look forward to tomorrow, the run will be on flat ground, the bikes might be left at home but they tell me we will be in Brown’s Island again. The milk will be left in the bog hole, the grogeens will be built and the stories will continue on through the next generation.