In a Word . . . Turf

As I fell into the bog hole, my life flashed before me (it didn’t take long; I was seven)

I never had any great passion for the bog. Or turf. Apart from the endless dust and my natural aversion to hard work, the drudgery associated with turning, clamping, and freeing turf – to my mind – made even Inquisition tortures seem attractive.

And “freeing” turf had nothing to do with liberation. It was when you built a wall on the outside of a stack, using sods as bricks, to protect it from wind and rain. There was satisfaction in doing that well. And it was never as back-breaking as turning the sod – so the other side could dry – or building them into small clamps to allow the wind complete that essential drying job.

I think my dislike of the bog in younger days was also related to a near-death experience back then. Or, as it seemed. I was about seven and the men had cleared the bank to get at the turf below when I noticed my younger brother hacking for all he was worth and without success at a stubborn clump of grass – a scraw – on the turf bank edge.

I took the spade off him and, with one almighty lunge, sent the scraw to kingdom come, with consequences. I did not expect it would so easy and the force I used dragged me and the spade deep down into the less-than-inviting dark brown waters of the ever-threatening bog hole below.

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My life flashed before me – which didn’t take long; I was seven – and, in the seconds I spent in that murky dark instinct soon took over and I thrashed about, convinced I was a goner.

Suddenly I was dragged into the light by my father who found the whole thing simply hilariously funny indeed. As did my brother. The wages of hubris. Shaken, and stirred, I played it cool to deny them any further satisfaction.

Incidentally, no one in that world ever refers to turf as peat. Only those who know little about the bog, do so. In our world, Pete is a man’s name. Or that of a dog with an incontinence problem – Piddlin’ Pete (an old party piece of my own) whose skills include “double drips and fancy flips/And now and then a dribble”.

Turf, from Old English tyrf , for a "slab of soil/grass, sod".

inaword@irishtimes.com