A Day out on an Irish Bog: Saving the Turf

Céad Míle Fáilte – and welcome to your Letter from Ireland for this week. As I tend the turf fire here in County Cork, its sweet smoke brings me back to the Irish bog and the generations who worked there before us.

Though winter still holds us in its grip, we’re starting to notice what we call “a grand stretch in the evenings” – a precious few extra minutes of daylight that promise spring’s approach. The fires are still blazing in hearths across the county, and as we were fortunate enough to get our hands on some turf this week, it got me thinking. I’m reminded of how this simple fuel sustained countless generations of our ancestors, when every family knew the rhythm of working the bog and the comfort of a turf fire on a cold evening. And that is what we will chat about this week.

I’m sipping on a cup of Barry’s Tea as I write, and I do hope you’ll join me with whatever you fancy as we start into today’s letter.

Earlier this week, I received a lovely message from Julie in London:

“Dear Mike, My grandfather used to often talk about his childhood summers spent ‘saving the turf’ on his uncle’s farm in County Mayo. He described long days in the bog and how everyone would help each other out. I’d love to know more about these bogs – what were they and what a typical day working there was like. Thanks for your wonderful letters! – Julie”

What a wonderful memory to share, Julie! Your father’s story brings back so many memories of my own parents talking about their days in the Irish bog. But before I tell you about those summer days cutting turf, let me explain how these remarkable landscapes came to be.

The Birth of the Irish Bogs

Our Irish bogs began forming around 10,000 years ago, after the last Ice Age. As the climate warmed and became wetter, dead plant material began to accumulate in waterlogged areas. Over thousands of years, this partially decomposed vegetation formed deep layers of peat. We have two main types: blanket bogs, which cover many of our mountains and western landscapes like a thick carpet, and raised bogs, found in the central plains of Ireland.

You’ll find the great blanket bogs stretching across counties Mayo, Galway, and Donegal, while the midland counties of Offaly, Westmeath, and Longford are home to many of our raised bogs. In fact, the Bog of Allen once covered a vast area of central Ireland, though much has been cut away over the centuries.

A Day’s Work in the Irish Bog

Now, let me paint you a picture of a typical day ‘saving the turf’, as we called it – as told to me many times by my own parents. The day would start early, usually just after sunrise. The morning air would be crisp, and there’d often be a light mist rising off the bog. Everyone knew their role – it was like a well-rehearsed dance that had been performed for generations.

The men would begin with the cutting. The sleán (turf spade) would slice through the dark peat with a satisfying ‘swoosh’, creating neat blocks about the size of a brick. It was skilled work – too thin and the turf would crumble, too thick and it wouldn’t dry out properly. The cut blocks would be tossed up onto the bank with a practiced flick of the wrist.

Whoever wasn’t cutting would be ‘footing’ the turf – standing the wet blocks on their ends so they could dry in the wind and sun. Children would run back and forth, carrying the blocks and learning the traditional methods from their elders. Every so often, someone would shout “Tea’s ready” and all would gather for a welcome break.

The sandwiches always tasted better on the bog – thick slices of homemade bread with cheese or ham, wrapped in wax paper. Tea was poured from flasks, and someone would usually produce a fruit cake or some biscuits. These tea breaks were when the stories would flow – tales of past summers, local history, and always a few ghost stories about the Irish bog.

As the day wore on, other families would appear on their own plots nearby. There was an unwritten rule about helping neighbours – you’d finish your own section and then drift over to help others. By evening, you’d see neat rows of drying turf stretching across the bog like dark soldiers standing to attention.

After a few weeks of drying, the turf would be “turned” to ensure even drying, and finally gathered into small stacks called “clamps”. Later, these would be brought home by tractor and trailer, or in earlier times by horse and cart, to be stacked in the turf shed for winter fuel.

That evening the feeling of walking home, tired but satisfied, the smell of peat smoke drifting from nearby chimneys, and knowing you had contributed to your family’s warmth for the coming winter – must have been something special that’s hard to put into words.

How about you? Did your family have a plot on the Irish bog? Do you remember those long summer days of turf-cutting? I’d love to hear your memories in the comments below.

Slán for this week,

Mike.