Hardy bogmen are a cut above us

THE days are lengthening, and it’s a time that some people head for the bogs and windy uplands, for yet another year’s supply of turf.

A bit like the recent upsurge in demand for grow-your-own vegetable allotments in towns and cities, country people who haven’t stood on a bank of turf for many moons are talking about going back to the traditional fuel.

It’s very likely that, in the coming years, bureaucrats sitting in glass-walled offices in Brussels will ban all turf cutting, for environmental reasons. The signals have been there for years and it’s something that will inevitably happen.

For the moment, however, turf cutters have been granted a stay of execution, following the recent announcement by Environment Minister John Gormley that cutting will be allowed in 32 Special Area of Conservation (SAC) bogs this year.

It’s important to draw a distinction between extensive, commercial turf-cutting, such as takes places in the midlands, and the farmer that harvests turf in his own bog, for his own use. There’s no doubt that large-scale turf cutting has led to the virtual disappearance of our raised bogs, and what’s left needs to be conserved.

But a case can be made for allowing some turf cutting on the much smaller, privately-owned bogs. Nowadays, most of the turf is cut by machine, but, here and there, you’ll find men that still do it in the old-fashioned way and strike off for the peatlands with hay knifes, pikes and sleans.

Looking at some of the practitioners of the ancient art in their working clothes, you could easily underestimate both their physical and mental capacities.

They are, however, hardy folk well-accustomed to honest toil, and often surprisingly perceptive about the world and its affairs.

You can learn a lot about someone by spending a day in the bog with them. Taciturn men can open their minds and loosen their tongues, tell gripping stories and offer seriously considered views on complex matters.

A man of our acquaintance was known to be able to expound all day about the world bank, while standing on a bank of turf. He may not have been very useful in the bog, but his knowledge of international finance fascinated his companions.

I learned my first geography lesson from a neighbour in the bog. One day, when we broke for lunch, he pulled a whiskey bottle full of tepid tea from a woollen sock.

It was one of those old Paddy bottles with a faded map of Ireland on the label, clearly showing all four provinces. He pointed out the provinces one by one, each with a different colour – a lesson never forgotten.

Nowadays, some of our bogs have become nature sites, a very welcome trend. For too long, the attitude was that bogs had no value and were often used for illegal dumping, which, sadly, continues.

But true bogmen have always been close to nature. In boyhood days spent on the uplands along the Cork/Kerry border, men who never went beyond primary school, and never heard of the word “environment”, educated us about the wonders of nature.

Akin to the lesson on the whiskey bottle, they drew our attention to the singing lark – which would remain almost suspended in the air over a bank of turf – curlews, hares and the variety of plant life all around us.

In a nearby Bord na Móna bog, in Barna, machines cut the turf and a train was used to transport mounds of dried sods across the bog, which was a great source of curiosity to youngsters. Barna provided useful employment, but turf cutting has long since ceased there. It’s a cutaway bog that could yet be a superb nature reserve.

The bog anywhere has a special magic and is a compelling place, especially when the sun shines and heather-scented breezes blow. The celebrated travel writer, HV Morton, was in lyrical mood when he described turf smoke as the “incense of Ireland”.

Only recently, someone wrote that tourists were bemoaning the fact that turf fires are now only rarely seen in Irish pubs.

Appreciation of the bog has, undoubtedly, grown and the Bog of Allen, in the midlands, has become a centre for research and a showcase for our bogs nationally.

The Irish Peatland Conservation Council (IPCC) has purchased a building for a Peatland World Museum in the middle of the bog, where wetland habitats are being developed for threatened species. Let’s hope they also remember the magnificent men that went to the bog with bottles of “tay” in socks.