Where Turf Fires Burn and the Scent, Culture, and Memory of Life Come Alive

Igrew up in a rural community in County Mayo, close to the Sligo border. I am the only child of Denis and Evelyn. My father was a milkman—a vital role in our rural community during the 70s and 80s. He collected milk in creamery cans from local dairy farmers and brought it to the local creamery. Being the youngest in his family, my father took over the milkman job from his elder brother when he emigrated to America. The role of milkman had been passed down, as their father before them had also been a milkman. My mother worked at home, but she was every bit as much a farmer as my father. She milked the cows while Dad set off early to gather the neighbours’ milk, returning later to collect ours before bringing it all to the creamery. The cows were milked twice a day, a routine that shaped much of our daily life and revolved around the rhythms of the farm.

The cadence of our life was marked by the seasons and the work of the farm: milking cows, saving hay, and cutting turf in the bog. Milking was an everyday activity, rain or shine, while the hay and turf were dependent on good weather. Saving hay was crucial to feed the cows and calves through the winter, and turf from the bog was essential for heating the house. When a spell of fine weather came, saving the hay always took priority, as it couldn’t be made without dry conditions.

I loved the work of saving hay and the craic we had in the bog. (Craic in Ireland means great fun and good company.) Both were family activities, but the latter two—saving hay and working in the bog—were often community events as well. A day in the bog was a full affair, complete with sandwiches, currant cake (if we were lucky), and a bottle of tea wrapped in a tea towel to keep it warm—there were no flasks in those days!

Saving turf began with turning it to dry on both sides. Once the turf was dry enough, it was “footed”—stacked into little pyramids or “houses” to allow air to circulate and dry it further.  Each family had their own method of footing, passed down through generations. In wet years, the work was more challenging. I still remember carrying heavy, wet sods to higher ground, hoping they would dry enough to bring home. Saying the turf was back-breaking work is no exaggeration—stooping over to turn the sods or footing the turf often left muscles aching, and the backs of the legs in particular would throb for days afterwards. Despite the hard work, the bog was a place where community spirit thrived, with laughter and cooperation lightening the load.

Saving the turf was a task completed by our family, but bringing it home was very much a community activity. Neighbours came to help, and we returned the favour when their turn came. It was a coordinated effort that required several teams: those who loaded the turf into the trailer in the bog, the drivers who transported it home, and another team at home unloading the turf and stacking it neatly. Before we had a shed, the turf was stored in a carefully constructed reek—a tall, neatly stacked pile designed to keep the turf dry and ready for use. Later, when we had a shed, the team worked to stack the turf neatly inside.  My mother was part of the team working at the shed, but she also had the important responsibility of ensuring dinner was ready. Feeding everyone was essential after a long day of hard work, and she managed both roles seamlessly.   If we were lucky, we got to sit on top of the trailer full of turf during the journey back—a thrilling and bumpy ride that was always great craic. It’s something no child today would get to experience due to health and safety regulations, but back then, it was everyone’s favourite place to sit! The trailers were specially designed for the bog, fitted with two wide tires on each side to prevent sinking, and the lighter the tractor, the better. Ours was a Massey Ferguson 135, fitted with wide, large rear tires on both sides. My friend’s father, however, had an ingenious engineering solution—he modified his tractor to allow for three wide tires on each side, a sight that left us all impressed!

Older cousins fondly recall coming back to Ireland with their parents during the summer to help save the turf using a donkey and cart. At the time, they talk about being dragged to the bog, reluctant and grumbling, but today, these are their fondest memories. They describe the bog as it was back then: quieter and slower-paced, where the rhythm of the donkey’s hooves and the creak of the cart defined the day. It was hard work, but the connection to the land and the joy of spending time with family made it unforgettable. To this day, they say the smell of burning turf is their favourite smell, bar none—a scent that takes them straight back to those cherished summers.

Being an only child was unusual in our small community. Most of my friends came from large families with five, six, or even more siblings. My mother was one of five, my father one of seven, and my grandmother, Doddy, was one of sixteen! Emigration was woven into nearly every family’s story in our community. Many emigrated to England or the United States, while others went further afield to Australia. My mother’s aunt moved to Australia, and I vividly remember her airmail letters, written on thin paper that folded into its own envelope. We always opened them with great care, as they felt so fragile.

My mother’s two brothers also emigrated to England, and she followed them for a time before returning home to marry my father. My father had known my mother all their lives—he was from over Doomore Hill, just a bog road and a hill away. She and her brothers were born in New York, as my grandparents had emigrated to America in search of a better life. 

When World War II loomed, my grandparents decided to return to Ireland to see home one last time before the conflict broke out. They came back with three children under the age of three, intending to visit temporarily, but news soon spread of ships being bombed. With the Atlantic crossing too dangerous, they stayed in Ireland, first with my grandfather’s family in Sligo, then with my grandmother’s family also in Sligo, before eventually settling down and buying a country pub in Mayo, not far from the Mayo-Sligo border.

The story of emigration is woven into my life, connecting me to family abroad, shaping my identity, and preserving a heritage that continues to bind us across generations and distances. Through letters from family members abroad, visits from aunts, uncles, and cousins returning home for holidays, and shared stories, vivid pictures of their new lives emerged. Those letters and visits often spoke of a longing for home, and more often than not, it was the smell of home they missed most—the earthy, comforting aroma of the open fire, of burning turf. That scent, so tied to the hearth and to the very heart of our way of life, seemed to carry with it the essence of belonging, of shared memories, and of a bond that distance could never fully sever.

Today, I am married and living just over the road from my childhood home, now raising my own three children. We have geothermal underground heating—no turf required! My mother, however, never wanted to move away from turf; she loved her range and the warmth it brought. I’m glad we kept the tradition of saving turf alive long enough for my children to experience it.

Although my father had passed before my children were born, they still got to experience the bog with my mother. Those moments are precious to me, as they connect the generations in a shared tradition. The picture I cherish is of my mother, myself, and my youngest son, together in the bog—a testament to the enduring connection between our family and the land.

Only last year, my beautiful second cousins from Kentucky, USA—many in their 70s—came to Ireland for the first time to see their heritage and the land they came from. Their grandfather, one of the 16 children in my grandmother’s family, had emigrated to America and often shared stories of home. I brought them to the bogs, and they were captivated by the experience, taking small sods of turf back with them as keepsakes. They spoke of how the smell of turf was the smell of home—a connection passed down through their grandfather’s tales of music, the people he grew up with, and the life he left behind. Each Christmas, they would burn a tiny piece of turf as incense, a ritual that kept his memories of Ireland alive.

All of my father’s family have now passed away, as have my mother and one of her brothers. I often find myself drawn to the bog, where the soft, uneven ground beneath my feet demands careful attention. One wrong step could lead to a bog hole—a peril many have experienced, often sharing tales of their struggles. Falling into a bog hole is never pleasant; panicking only causes you to sink further, while staying calm is the only way to escape.

It is during these walks that I find a deep sense of peace. I feel connected to my parents and their parents before them, as though their presence still lingers in the land they worked and walked. In many ways, the bog looks unchanged, timeless. When turf is not being saved, the bog is a place of solitude, with the smell of fresh air, the sound of water moving through the landscape, and birds singing overhead. In those quiet moments, I could be in any time—yesterday, a century ago, or a thousand years back. And for a fleeting moment, it feels as though Mam and Dad might be waiting at home, with the turf fire already lit.

Mary Nolan, CEng MIEI, BEng, MED
PhD Candidate, SMARTlab UCD
Researching Inclusive Design and Creative Technology

Dedicated to creating a sustainable future while embracing timeless wisdom—the enduring values of connection to place and people, the power of heritage, respect for the land, the importance of shared effort, the ability of memory to bridge generations, and the resilience and calm that guide us through life’s challenges