Harry Browne

At that time coal was hard to get and gas was still “On the Glimmer” so my father rented a piece of bog on the Feather Bed Mountains near the present site of the RTE mast at Kippure. He and others cut turf, saved it, placed it in clamps and in Autumn brought it down from the mountains in a truck with high sides called “Creels”.

 Our house was built in a terrace with rear access through a lane. The lane was too narrow for the truck's access so the turf was deposited on the footpath outside our front door. This was common practice in Dublin at that time. The delivery of turf outside the house was a signal for all the kids of the neighbourhood to assemble with every conceivable manner of vessel, buckets, basins and even zinc bathtubs. The turf was filled into these vessels and carried through the house into the back yard where it was carefully clamped to protect it from rain.

Payment for this transport was in the form of lemonade, cake and biscuits which the children picked up on their trips to and fro through the house. These were always occasions of great fun for all concerned.

One year new neighbours arrived from Cork and occupied a house six or seven doors from us. The father, in common with many of his neighbours rented his plot of bog and eventually his turf was delivered, as usual, to the footpath outside his house. The children gathered and the turf was transported as usual but no refreshments were supplied, this was a serious breach of contract!

The following year his turf arrived as usual, the kids gathered as usual, but without vessels. Some twenty children of various sizes and sexes then walked up one side of the turf pile and down the other. This exercise was repeated until the load of turf was reduced to the texture of modern peat moss, rendering it useless for burning. The man never cut turf again.