The ends of the straw along the eaves of the thatched-roof are trimmed as neatly as the fibers of an artist’s paintbrush. The lower edge of the roof is just about at the motor coach’s window level, offering the best view yet of the ancient craft of roof-thatching. Our bus is rolling to a stop beside the two-hundred-year-old stone cottage on Rathbaun Farm, in County Galway, Ireland. Here the Connolly family operates a sheep and horse farm. Our driver, John, swings open the coach door and from his right-hand-drive position waves and shouts, “Good afternoon, Frances!” Frances Connolly continues strolling toward the bus, wiping her hands on a full-length print apron. Tottering along beside her, at first glance, appears to be the shadow of small dog; it is, instead, a black lamb, its head not as high as the lady’s knee. Frances climbs the coach’s three steps; so does the black lamb. She welcomes us to the farm and begins telling a bit of its history, but the little black lamb steals the show completely and is finally introduced to us as Shannon. Shannon, we learn, is less than two weeks old, is being bottle-fed, and has been trailing Frances since taking her first awkward steps. I will apologize now – I just cannot help it – all I can think of is, “Mary had a little lamb . . .” You know the rest, except that this is Frances instead of Mary and this lamb is black instead of white.
Our hostess informs us that we have arrived just in time for afternoon tea which will be served with freshly-baked scones; homemade jam; sweet, fresh cream butter and porter cake. To reach the dining room where tea will be served, we pass through a room in the thatched, stone cottage. Someone remarks about the unusual, sweet aroma, seemingly coming from a fire glowing in a large open fireplace. “Oh, that smell is from the turf,” says Frances. Turf?
Tea and scones can wait! Everyone gathers toward the hearth to have a look. On the fire grate are four small chunks glowing with short flames licking upward. In a basket at the left side of the hearth are pieces of a dark, hard substance, resembling sun-dried clumps of animal dung. Not heavy when lifted and appearing to have tiny plant fibers embedded, the brownish material is not quite as dense as charcoal. Turf? “But, what is turf?” asks someone.
A brief explanation follows, and we learn that the turf burning in the fireplace is also called peat or sod. It is dug from the ground in areas known as peat bogs and will burn as long and as hot as any oak-wood fire. Observing our fascination with turf, John assures us that we will alter our plans a bit for the next day, and he will take us to a peat bog to see sods of turf being harvested.
We proceed to the dining room and are seated for afternoon tea. The scones are incredible! The homemade jam and butter are spectacular! The tea – is tea. Following afternoon tea, Fintan Connolly leads us through the farmyard to the sheep barn where we see dozens of ewes watching over their young. It seems that each sheep and lamb has a different voice, all bleating to plead for our attention. Fintan guides us through the barn and out the back to be introduced to Mollie, a young Border-Collie. Mollie the Collie can hardly contain herself waiting for the gate to be opened so she can perform her afternoon duties. As soon as her nose makes it through the opening, she is off like a shot across the pasture. Grazing lazily at the far corner of the pasture are about a dozen adult sheep. When they detect Mollie’s first movement into the pasture, the sheep appear to panic and start running in the general direction of the barn. They seem to know where to go. Mollie zig-zags and circles frantically as the flock races across the pasture toward an open pen at the end of the barn. The first sheep to arrive at the pen does so with such speed and enthusiasm that she overshoots her destination jumping a four-foot stone wall at the back of the pen into the open barnyard. Once all the sheep are where they belong, Fintan apologizes for Mollie’s demeanor indicating that she is new to the job and has not yet developed the maturity of her predecessor who recently passed away.
Fintan chooses an unsuspecting candidate from the flock and for the next ten minutes shears away the entire fluffy, layer of wool, leaving it in one connected piece. The visit to Rathbaun Farm ends by passing back through the thatched cottage where again special attention is given to the turf fire. More questions – lots of pictures – time to go.
Next day, true to his word, John pulls the bus off the narrow road and into a dirt lane. “Here it is,” he says, “This is a peat bog.” Stepping off the coach, I see what looks like an idle field – not swampy – not muddy. There is a wild-grassy covering and to the casual tourist passing by, there is nothing spectacular here to be seen. But this land, for as far as we can see, is said to be filled with tons and tons of the energy-producing substance known to the Irish people as peat, turf or sod. To me, it looks like mucky dirt.
About a quarter of a mile away we see a mechanical sod-harvester. The huge piece of equipment removes sod in layers to a depth of about four feet, cuts it into manageable sized chunks, and using a conveyer system deposits the harvested peat in piles where it will be covered and allowed to dry or dehydrate for a few weeks. For centuries peat has also been harvested manually using a spade-like tool to cut the sod into brick-sized portions. Once the peat has dried, it will not reabsorb moisture and remains a convenient, ready fuel for fireplaces, stoves and furnaces.
Peat is an accumulation of partially decayed vegetation, usually, but not always, in marshy areas. As I understand it, after thousands of years and tons of pressure, peat will become coal. For household use it is cut into chunks. Once the clods have dried, they are handled much like firewood. The dehydrated, cured, product seems not as dense as wood, but locals tell me that sod will burn long and hot. It can also be ground or milled into pellets or briquettes for home or commercial use. Some electric generating stations are fueled with sod.
While the rest of the world experiments with, and debates the pros and cons of, green energy versus fossil-based fuels, it appears to me that the folks of southeast Ireland are years ahead (or centuries behind), in heating their homes, churches, castles and pubs.
One of the rewards of escorting groups of travelers is being able to observe which local customs attract their attention. Of all the fascinating things to experience in the beautiful Irish countryside, who might have guessed that chunks of dried mud burning in a fireplace would have attracted so much attention from the American tourists? From that day forward we noticed that sweet aroma in every pub we visited. Burning dirt!?! Really!?!
May All of Your Travels Be Happy and Safe!