On a walk through the evictions of the late 1800s recently, I found myself in the bog, specifically Moods Bog, in Clongorey.
Bogland and the formation of turf have long been a fascination of mine. I have great memories of going to the bog with my dad in 2009. It doesn’t take much these days to conjure up memories. I’m having a hard time getting used to the fact that he is gone.
Such is life.
Back to the bog. And the colours.
Now that I’ve embraced the grey, I’ve rediscovered a love of pinks and purples; yellows have always ranked up there on my colour palette.
There’s a wildness to it. And otherness. It’s steeped in tradition. Cutting and saving turf has sustained generations of Irish men and women in centuries gone by. Today’s oil may well be data but back then, turf was like gold.
I found this wonderful video that shows how it’s done.
As we listened to a short talk on how turf was formed, my mind wandered back to 2009 when I’d gone to the bog with my dad. I’d listened then, too. To him.
It’s a year of firsts – the first time I didn’t get a phone call from him on my birthday; the first time I went home and he wasn’t there; the first time I caught myself making a note to myself to ask him something next time we met – and there are more first lining up in the wings. Twelve months of them.
But such is the nature of living.
I am grateful for the memories.