THE BEST OF THE BOG

IN winter when the days are short and the nights are long, the best thing to do would be to curl up in front of the fireplace, sip cocoa, indulge in chocolates and watch television programmes.
Every time I want to go out, there will be a mental debate whether it is worth all the trouble to leave the blazing hearth and to put on the scarf, the gloves, the hat, the coat to face the chilly winds and to make sure that the windscreen has defrosted or the roads are not too slippery for my trusty Peugeot to meander through.

Most of the green surroundings that Ireland is synonymous with are in dormant state during this season. So, some time back, I thought it might be interesting to see the hard and soggy side of nature, the bog to be precise and I had never seen a bog.

For most people, contact with bogs comes via large sacks packed with turf sods for the fire or plastic bags filled with gardening peat. I had read that the bogs were the last wilderness to form in the Irish landscape in the wake of the Ice Age.
Stories abound that in the past, men used to bury butter, to take short cuts or to hide murdered bodies in the bog. In medieval times, those who inhabited monasteries, manor-estates as well as cottages burned turf to keep warm. The tenants of the land had to cut, store and transport turf. This was part of the customary duties levied by the owners of the land upon their tenants. It was not surprising then that an extensive and specialised Irish vocabulary evolved around the cutting of turf, and different parts of Ireland had their own variants or “turf dialects”.

The opportunity very soon presented itself. As I picked myself gingerly into a pick-up truck and headed for the bog, my heart palpitated. I had never sat on a pick-up truck before, much less one that saw three people on the front seat because the back part of the truck was filled with indescribable things which exuded unfamiliar smells. It was a roller coaster ride as we rocked upwards and sideways in unison, like trapped sardines in a can. Through it all, I was sandwiched between two burly men: John and my better half, Michael.
The journey seemed perilous and the road allowed only one vehicle to pass at any one time. I feared the worst should there be an oncoming vehicle but Michael pointed out to me that there were sporadic enclaves where the oncoming vehicle could wait, should the situation arise.
Actually, I had nothing to fear because John negotiated the road bends with great agility. Indeed, I would not have been surprised if he would do the very same, had he been blindfolded. I later learnt that the bog had been his childhood playground.
John asked me whether I would like to see bog one or bog two. My pragmatic brain settled for bog one which was nearer although John argued that the second bog would be more spectacular “bog-wise”.
Finally, we reached our destination. The ground was soggy and I was grateful to the creator of wellingtons. The biting cold made my hands freeze. It was 5pm and the air was laden with dank heaviness.

I took great care to tread the ground gently, lest I stepped on murdered victims of centuries past. We even had to cross a makeshift bridge in single file which reminded me of Captain Hook asking Peter Pan and the lost boys to walk the plank.
As my eyes spanned the bog, I saw the most beautiful sight ever. Neatly stacked in mounds, all covered with plastic sheets were stacks and stacks of turf.
All around the mounds stood heavy duty rubble sacks filled with turf and more turf, not unlike the rocks of Stonehenge, dark and ominous in the quiet of the evening. It was no aurora borealis but it was the beauty of a man’s hard work.
Signalling to Michael that there was work to be done, the two men started to fill more rubble sacks with turf. This, they did, not once but several times as I cheered them on. Watching the whole process, I had nothing but admiration for the brave attempt to harness the harshness of the land. There was no complaining but only sweat and dedication. All this for turf that would sell for E3.5 (RM14.80) per bag.

Sophocles said, “Without labour, nothing prospers”. How true. It is that manual competence that gives us a sense of autonomy and a feeling of responsibility. At the end of the day, we begin to appreciate something of the pleasing exhaustion that is characteristic of the work done.


SOURCE: The best of the bog - Columnist - New Straits Times http://www.nst.com.my/opinion/columnist/the-best-of-the-bog-1.14699#ixzz1fYO4x0QJ