Whitsun weekend

This was always the signal that Summer had truly arrived.  As a child and teenager growing up in rural western Ireland, it also signalled the first visit to the bog.  Not what you might think if you are an urban fox...(Irish Mammy will understand...)

Even though at the time, I vowed never to inflict this on my own children (little knowing the opportunity would never arise in any event) I now find myself looking back wistfully to a simpler existence, when our winter warmth depended on those days spent lifting, turning, piling, bagging and drawing home the 'turf' or dried peat if you prefer.  I'm not sure tea and sandwiches have ever tasted as good since.  Then again -reality check- these days the work, which was back-breaking, with constant exposure to 'crower' or horse-fly and midge bites, would be considered akin to child cruelty.  Just in case anyone is wondering, BM is still in her early forties, and her in-laws are the same age as her parents but as the said in-laws pointed out perceptively on their first visit to Ireland, even then it felt like it had not changed since at least the 1950s (in 1996).  

However.....BM's sister, herself going through a reflective phase, took her own children to join BM's Pater Familias at the family bog site to 'help' last weekend.   Suffice it to say, nobody involved will ever request a return visit!

Nope, Pater is happy by himself (well, with Penny the dog for company) and BM's sister has to accept as we all do I suppose, that our children have to build their own unique memories and cannot simply recreate ours.

Some pictures

And this

Maybe it's time for a visit...