We set out on the seven-mile journey from No. 56 to Knockdrin at 7.30 in the morning. The sun had barely risen, the sky fading from dawn charcoal into morning grey. The chilly air and the dripping dew encouraged us to move smartly.
This time he let me tag along, the older brother. I was twelve, an extra pair of hands and a puffed-out chest. I was proud to be asked to work the bog, especially with Liam. I’d come to the bog with Da and Liam before, mostly to keep me busy, but this was different. This time, coins jingled in the promise. I lay awake thinking about it all.
We each had two plastic bags wrapped around our hands. These bags contained our sandwiches of luncheon meat and salad cream between soft, white slices of Brennan’s bread from Joe Delaney’s shop. A few custard creams and red lemonade completed our feast.
“You’re a great one for coming to the bog,” Liam said.
“Ah, sure, I don’t mind at all.” I was trying to play it cool, but the praise was electric.
“It’ll be long days and it will break your back, but you’ll meet the lads, and you’ll earn a good bit off the Mulvin lad, so don’t worry about that.”
I was so excited to join Liam on this mission to Mulvin’s bog. And at the same time to feel a part of something, an actual job with money changing hands.
We headed off up the Derrygreenagh road, taking a left down the Mullingar road to the village. The roads were quiet, just the occasional voices of me and Liam. “We’ll try and thumb a lift,” said Liam. We got to the village, past Sluts’ Wall, across the road to the sign that pointed to Rhode in Offaly, our destination Knockdrin. The road was full of potholes as we got into our seven-mile trek.
“Will I have a sandwich, Liam?” I asked.
“Ah, it’s only 7.30, hold out for a bit, the day hasn’t even begun.” Every time we heard a car behind us, up the thumbs would go, but no cars stopping. On we’d march.
“The turf was cut in May, we have four weeks to get it all footed,” Liam explained. He went on to tell me about all the people from the parishes of Moyvalley, Milltown, Ballinabrackey, Edenderry and Ballymore that relied on the turf. About Seamus O’Toole and his stooped back, twisted and bent from years of turf baskets and thinking he was still living in the famine days.
“He can’t stand straight ever since,” Liam said.
“Poor Bent Seamus,” I whispered to myself, nodding my head.
Despite the distance to Mulvin’s bog, the journey was not long. A blue Fiat Uno stopped, a man from Offaly eyeing us up like we had something belonging to him.
“Where to, lads?” he enquired, his thick voice lacing each word with a hearty warmth.
“Heading to Knockdrin,” Liam replied.
The man chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Ah, the boglands! A grand place for getting lost. I’m Seany, Seany Bracken. I knew your father from the Bord,” he said. “Jump in! Jump in!” Then in an instant he launched into a story about ‘auld Tim Doran’.
We nodded politely to the story of the lost ram of auld Tim Doran, escaping its bounds and getting lost for days in the wild. The image made me want to giggle uncontrollably but I was held in check by the brother listening intently. I didn’t want the Offaly man to think I was laughing at him, especially after him stopping for us.
The story continued. “Ah sure there was then five other lads who joined in the search until dusk fell, then wasn’t I speaking to Tim the following week and ya won’t believe it—Molly the fecking ram was back at the farm that same evening, as if nothing at all had happened. Sure, some cheek. God only knows how it made its way back. Tim says it gladly made its way to his stomach soon enough.” He laughed. We nervously laughed with him.
“Oh sure that’s mad, Seany, nothing ever surprises me in these parts.” Liam said.
The car rumbled along the country roads. The Offaly man turned his attention on to me and said, “Ya see that field over there? Legend has it that the fairies have a grand old time there on moonlit nights, dancing up a storm.”
Perhaps he imagined I was five, not twelve. Fairies for the love of God.
Go away outta that, I thought. “Oh that’s nice,” I said softly.
We arrived at Mulvin’s. As we said farewell, Seany the Offaly man offered one last piece of wisdom. “Mind yourselves with those O’Sullivan twins,” he added. “They’re as wild as the rams. Good luck.”
We jumped out of the car mumbling, “Thanks a million , thanks a million,” and waved him off.
“How did he know that the twins were here?” I asked Liam.
“He’d know where ya pissed last, auld Seany the nosey fecker.”
“I suppose he gave us a lift all the same, that was decent of him.”
The bog stretched out in front of us, endless and wild. A voice floated our way, “Welcome, welcome, young Heaveys!”
“There he goes, Paddy’s already at it,” Liam said, grinning wide.
Paddy O’Brien came closer, eyes wild like he’d just thought up the greatest trick. He looked straight at me. “You’re officially a part of the Bog Workers Club. Give us a bogger handshake,” he said.
“What’s that?” I asked.
Paddy put out his hand. Just as I reached to shake it, he whipped it back and, with his other hand, handed me a lump of turf. “Let that be your magic lump of turf! Keep it close. It wards off enemies,” Paddy said, winking.
“Ah, give it a rest, Paddy,” Liam laughed, shaking his head.
I took a moment to look around. I’d often passed the bog in the car to Granny’s in Ballinabrackey, but standing on the vast stretch of raw earth was altogether different. The bog was a rich, pigmented realm as dark as a Black Forest Gateau and as textured as tweed, with tints ranging through ochre, olive and emerald to the very brownest of purples. I felt an immediate connection to the earth beneath my feet.
“Our bank’s over there,” shouted Liam. We had to jump a few bog streams to reach it. Turf banks were measured in perches. One perch was five and a half yards, about five metres. The boundary of our bank was marked with yellow workers’ gloves. Yellow stood out as a helpful marker to aid us against the general darkness of the terrain. We reached the bank, but not before jumping the last bog stream. It was wider than I was tall, and it would take a mighty leap to reach the other side. Liam took the great leap and landed on his knees.
“Wow Polly, when you get over this side the view is magic,” he said, blue eyes sparkling over at me. He was joined by Paddy. They both looked at me.
“Come on Polly, jump. Take a run at it!”
My heart was in my mouth. If I didn’t make it I was going down with the bog bodies—I didn’t want to be a sacrifice so young.
“Do it! Do it!” the lads chanted.
I took about ten steps back as a run-up. “Shiittt, ahhh,” I screamed as I ran like the clappers. “Aheee!” I launched myself into space, feeling my soul leave my body. Was it my soul or my body which got there first? I grabbed hold of the far side, four hands grabbed mine, then my arms as they pulled me up.
“Welcome, welcome,” Paddy exclaimed patting my shoulder. Liam plonked down our bags of sandwiches, red lemonade, and custard creams. The rising sun beamed into my green, excited eyes.
Oliver and Murphy O’Sullivan stood on their bank, their fiery red hair and twinned freckles dancing on their grinning faces. “Hello, lads! Hope you’re all fit as fiddles today. We’ve got a deadly piece of bog to get through,” Liam said, eyeing everyone.
“Sure, we were born for this,” the twins replied together.
“Who’s this girl? A girl at the bog? Shouldn’t she be at home doing dishes or cleaning or something?” asked Oliver.
“She’s a hard worker,” Liam snapped. “She’ll give you a run for your money. She’s my sister, so keep those words to yourself.”
“Jaysus, I was only joking,” Oliver replied. To cut through the tension, Oliver piped up in his best Westmeath accent, “Why do sheep go to the movies?”
Murphy rolled his eyes but couldn’t help chuckling. “Well, why?”
“They love the baaaaaack row!” Oliver burst into laughter, shoulders shaking as he clutched his sides.
“Be careful of the old bogmen,” Oliver said to me. “You know, those Iron Age men that were buried centuries back. They like the blood of young ’uns!”
“Very funny,” I replied, but still hoping that I wouldn’t come across one.
“These are your lines, Polly,” said Liam. He gestured three rows comprised of stacks of fifteen pieces of turf, stretching a mile into the distance. The turf had been cut by machine, now us humans had to complete the job by hand. Our mission was to bend over and turn every piece one by one, without gloves. One side was dry, depending on the weather, and it needed to be turned to dry the other side.
“Have a quick sandwich and a drink before you begin,” said Liam, “it’ll give you energy.” I took a swill of red lemonade and a hefty bite of sandwich, salad cream running down my chin. “Don’t mind that lad, they’re good workers but don’t take any heed of them, they have as much intelligence as a slug.”
“Yeah, a dead slug!” I added trying to be all cool. With a determination like no other, I met his gaze and declared, “Watch me go!”
Without a moment’s pause, I got on with it. One by one, I flipped the sods, arranging them in a perfect row, row after row, until the path stretched as far as the eye could see. I wanted to show him. My hands dug into the earth, the mud cool and sticky between my fingers. Each piece of turf I turned felt like a story waiting to be told. In the distance, bulldozers and peat cutters were busy creating yet more banks of turf. Turning, turning, turning a piece of history, of Medieval history. Maybe I’d discover an ancestor here, an ancient Heavey. Turning, ever turning. I let my mind wander, picturing the ancient bog bodies resting somewhere below. Could one be right under my feet? Preserved perfectly, untouched by time? Mrs Kavanagh’s voice, the English teacher, came to me. I almost love you but would have cast, I know, the stones of silence. Were these old souls silent in the folds of turf, watching me from beneath?
The lads were always nearby, messing about, tossing stinging nettles and laughing. But here, as I worked, their voices became a distant hum. Being busy with the turf gave me a purpose. My hands and back ached, but I felt an odd sense of satisfaction, a connection to something far greater than myself.
“Ah sure, you must be hungry, children,” called Mrs Mulvin.
There she was, padding through the bog, a tray of sandwiches balanced on her hip. Our eyes lit up at the sight. Mrs Mulvin, the mother of 11, small as a robin, with black hair pinned neatly back, always seemed tireless. She could move mountains if she had a mind to. Her house was on the edge of the bog, always bustling with the life of her 11 progeny.
Her tray was a treasure, piled high with ham salad and cheese and salad cream sandwiches. “Here you go now,” she said, and we gathered around, grabbing the sandwiches with eager hands. We had our own sandwiches but nothing tasted better than someone’s kindness buttered in the middle. “Take a little rest between those lines, the sun’s hot enough today so be careful to drink plenty.”
Liam said, “We got some red lemonade Mrs Mulvin,” holding it up in the air, “but thanks a million.”
“I’ll be off to feed my own lot,” she said after a pause.
I returned to my plot. The sun was burning my back, throwing long shadows all over the big peat bog. My ears got used to hearing the sounds of skylarks whizzing round my head and hares munching on heather and bog cotton. I continued to turn each sod of turf to ensure the sun and wind would help the drying process. Then I placed the turf upright, or footed, for further drying. Then I had to place five or six sods of turf upright, leaning against each other. We took breaks every hour or two. The bog dust would find its way even into our sandwiches. Now and again Liam would bring me over a custard cream and I’d wash it down with red lemonade, a combination of sugary delight in the bog fields.
Just then from nowhere, a little frog popped up. A cute little thing, Jesus he jumped right up into my face, leaving a slimy trace. Long hind legs, small fat body, webbed digits, no tail, protruding eyes. Those froggy eyes stared into my green eyes. “Ribbett, ribbett,” he said, sharing a furtive glance before, as quick as he had come, he was away. Perhaps he’d passed me a message from my Iron Age ancestors?
“Liam, frogs here,” I screamed, but I wasn’t the only one with guests.
The O’Sullivan twins had a bucket full of froggies on their muddy bank. Oliver piped up, “Heh, let’s turn all the frogs inside out!” Murphy laughed, ready to join in and holding one up in the sunlight.
“What, no!” I screamed. But Liam and Paddy weren’t having it. They charged at the twins and wrestled them to the ground. The frogs took their chance, hopping away in a green blur. The twins ended up face down in the muck.
“If ye do that again, ye can feck off the bog. I’ll get two other lads,” Liam warned.
The twins scrambled up, brushing themselves off, not saying a word. Mulvin paid well, and they had punts on their minds. They quietly got back to work.
“Are ye okay?” I asked, seeing Liam’s left hand was bleeding.
“I’m grand,” Liam said, trying to smile through the pain. “Won’t be a bother on me.”
“Jesus, Liam, you need at least a tissue or something. Maybe a plaster. Skinner McCabe’s caravan is over there. Not far. I’ll run over.”
My knuckles barely brushed the dusty caravan door when I whispered, “Mr McCabe? Are ya in?”
From inside, I heard the caravan groan as someone moved. Soon, the door creaked open. There stood Mick (Skinner) McCabe, his blue eyes sharp as ice. “Och, what’s happened, girlie? Alana mo cridhe, what’s going on? Come in, Sit down.”
He had a smile that sort of pulled you in, all soft and nice. He didn’t have a lot of hair, just a few tufts here and there on his head. His old green sweater looked like it could tell stories, and his black work pants were worn out. His face was soft and buttery, and his smile showed just a few teeth left, but it was the best grin ever. He had this little hat he kept fixing on his head, and he’d scratch his head sometimes.
“Liam’s hand, it’s bleeding pretty bad,” I blurted out, the words stumbling over each other.
“Is it gonna fall off?” he asked a grin on his eye. How did he know who Liam was?
“Oh, I hope not,” I replied, “but there’s a lot of blood.”
“I’ll grab a few things for ya, girlie.” He rummaged around, emerging with a clean cloth and a tin of plasters, then nudged me toward the door.
Inside the caravan, holy pictures of God hung on the walls, alongside black and white photos from a time gone by. A little green range sat in the corner, surrounded by neat piles of newspapers and books. Although the furnishings were limited and basic, Skinner kept his caravan in perfect order. “I’ll toss in a few bars of Cadbury’s and a few bags of crisps for ye,” he said, stuffing the goodies into a brown paper bag. “Let’s go fix that hand.”
“Thanks, Skinner I mean, Mick,” I said, embarrassed.
“You can call me Skinner, girlie,” he chuckled. “I have many names – bog man, the ghost of Knockdrin, you name it. Skinner’s the least of them.” He walked straight over to Liam, without me even telling him who he was. “Good lad,” Skinner said, “have a few of them,” as he handed him the cloth and plasters.
“Alright, young ones, gather round,” Skinner announced. “You know, the bog’s got its own stories, waiting to be told.”
“What kind of stories?” asked a twin.
“The kind that’d make your hair stand on end,” Skinner replied, his voice lowering as if sharing a secret. “You ever hear of the Banshee? We were cutting turf one misty morning, and just as the sun rose, a piercing wail echoed across the bog. We froze, too afraid to move. Next day, old Tom Murphy passed away.”
The twins gasped, their eyes like saucers.
“Course, there’s good stories too,” Skinner added quickly. “You treat the bog well, and it’ll treat you right back. Around 1935, a fellow found a golden torc buried deep in the turf. Made him richer than he ever dreamed. The bog keeps its secrets, and it keeps its balance. Now, who wants a bar of Cadbury’s?”
As the evening wore on, the sky turned a deep indigo.
“Thanks, Mick. For everything,” Liam said, his voice soft but sincere.
“Ach, don’t mention it,” Skinner replied, giving him a warm smile. “Just remember what I said. The bog’s got ears, and it’s always listening.”
With that, Skinner turned and started walking back to his little caravan. His voice rose up in a familiar tune, The Valley of Knockanure. I could hear the melody drifting through the air, and it felt like the whole world stopped to listen.
Now the summer sun was setting now Between the hills and the sea And the pale pale moon was rising far out from Tralee town and the dismal stars and the clouds afar Are darkening o’er the moor snd the banshee cried as our sons they died In the Valley of Knockanure.
“Are ya ready to go?” Liam asked as he handed me my two squished-up salad cream sandwiches. “Well done, you got through that.”
We started on the return journey just as the summer sun was setting. I was as dirty as the bog, dust and freckles in equal abundance, with bog cotton floating around us. It reminded me of Daddy’s soft Grey hair.
*
Learn more about Yvonne on our Contributors’ Page.
Yvonne’s latest short story collection, The Wake of Yer man, was published in 2024 is available here.
(Photo: bec.w/flickr.com/ CC BY 2.0)
- Mulvin’s Bog by Yvonne Heavey - October 17, 2024