Tag: Mick O’Callaghan Page 2 of 3

At The Greenway in Cahirdown

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Best dressed Finalists

with a Listowel connection

Niamh (Kenny) Lordan and her husband, Ted, were each finalists in the best dressed competitions at Killarney Races.

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A Day in The Bog

Remember this lovely bog picture

Well, the bog isn’t all fun and games.

Mick O’Callaghan remembers childhood days harvesting fuel for the winter;

My Memory of Days in the Bog.

The days in the bog were part of my life growing up in Kerry. When the year turned the corner of St Paddy’s Day turf appeared quite often in the lexicon of many a house. My father would take down the hay knife and sharpen it, likewise with the slean [slawn, turf cutting spade). When we heard the question ‘when is Good Friday this year’, we knew turf was in the air.

We rose early on Good Friday morning to clean the top rough sod off the turf bank to be ready for cutting on Easter Monday. We marked about a yard wide down the length of the raised turf bank and started the marking the surface sod with the hay knife and sliced if off with the wide spade. Then we ensured all drains were clear so that there would be no excess water around the turf bank on cutting day. This work had to be finished by noon because we had to attend the stations of the cross at three o clock in the afternoon.

Our bog was located in Gleann Scoithin, and we passed Queen Scotia’s grave on the way up.  Queen Scotia was reputed to have been a daughter of an Egyptian Pharaoh. She was Queen of the Celtic Milesians who defeated the Tuatha De Danann.  On top of the hill in Scotia’s Glen there lived a family of sheepmen. Tom told me stories about Queen Scotia and her sexual exploits around the valley. I never knew whether he was telling me the truth or not. I did take notice when he told me to “stick to the books garsún” and avoid the hard work of turf. When we passed their house in the morning on the way to the bog, Tom was out shaving. He used a white enamel pan with some hot water brought out from the saucepan on the range, a bit of glass stuck in the ditch served as a mirror. He made a good lather with some carbolic soap and shaved away quite happily, totally oblivious to the curious gaping of passers-by at this bare topped mountain man. He just continued with the greeting “Welcome to Glean Scóithín, Are ye right for pikes and sleans lads? Ye know where they are”. He continued shaving.

Easter Monday, which was cutting day, weather permitting, was fast approaching. There was always great preparation the night before. We had a cutter and another man for pitching the sods. We had to provide all the food. The big chunk of ham, two loaves of Barry’s white bread, the pound of Lee Strand Creamery butter, hard boiled eggs, a packet of Galtee cheese, some of my mother’s homemade currant bread and Marietta biscuits were packed as well as the loose tea, milk, mustard, a few knives and spoons and we were ready for our bog day. Our man on the slean was Micky Quirke and he would be in the bog around 6.45am to start the cutting and marking out the size of area needed to spread the turf out for drying. Con Sugrue took the sods and tossed them out to my father who piked them on to me for spreading in serried rows ready for footing and drying.

As the youngest of the team, I was the designated tea boy. My first job was to get sufficient cipíní and dryish turf to start a fire. Next the old, blackened kettle was produced, and I was despatched to go to the well for water. When the water was procured it was boiled on the fire and several spoons of tea were spooned into the kettle. It was always great strong tea. Then the cuisine a la Mick started. The pan loaf and butter were opened. Generous chunks of ham were piled up on well- buttered bread with a slice of cheese on top of that, topped off with a dollop of Coleman’s mustard. This was fine al fresco dining at its best. The boiled eggs were eaten from the hand. Then we had a few Marietta biscuits liberally coated with butter followed by a slice of my mother’s homemade currant bread, all washed down with bog water strong tasting tea. 

Being fully nourished and fortified it was back to the business of cutting turf while the garsún tidied up. I had to keep any tea left in the kettle and pour it into a couple of bottles with added milk. I carefully rolled up the paper corks and stuck  them into the bottles. There was nothing better than cold boggy tea, corked with the sloppy paper corks, for the four-o clock snack with the currant bread.

These  bottles were wrapped in socks for the evening, for what reason I will never know.

As the cutting progressed, we got deeper into the bog and the quality of the turf improved with each sod being as black as coal. This was the real deal as regards quality turf. It was much harder work, tossing it out from a lower position and every muscle was strained. We worked a full 10-hour day and at the end we exchanged pleasantries with the Browns and the Morans who were cutting adjoining banks of turf. We bid farewell to the bog and arrived home tired and weary. 

Now we had to wait and hope the weather kept fine till we lifted the turf for footing to let the wind blow through. This was a painstaking, back breaking exercise. You had to bend down to pick up every sod of turf and make the base tripod of sods and keep them standing. We were lucky most years with this laborious crop and got the reek made early enough in summer. All turf had to be home in the yard before Tralee Races and The Rose of Tralee annual festival  at the end of August. Bringing home the turf was a great occasion. We would get two big lorries of turf clamped up high by our driver. When it was home in the yard it was stacked away in sheds ready to keep the home fires burning for another winter. Neighbours came to inspect the turf and help with putting it into the shed. There was always a neighbourhood meitheal to help with jobs like this, a tremendous spirit of co-operation and genuine spirit of love thy neighbour.

There was many a joke and comment passed about the quality of the turf, but it was all good, humoured banter. The winter fuel was now secure for another winter.

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A Staycation

Molly is happy out exploring Listowel. I haven’t shown her any of the photos of her forever family sunning themselves in the Algarve.

What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over.

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A Definition

from The Devil’s Dictionary

by Ambrose Bierce

congratulation, n. the civility of envy

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A Fact

There are more left handed people with IQs over 140 than right handed people.

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