Usually the day started early, as soon after milking as possible. He stood at the gate by the grey pillars and waited for the rattle and bang of the cart. It was painted plain red or worn red to pink and had gates that laid flat on the way down to the bog.
A tooth jarring ride it was rattling on the white unmade road, a lane really, and always a moments stop at a low sycamore to peer in to a goldfinches nest as he was held from the plank at the front of the cart.
And then to gather and bring in the turf from the stacked drying piles like little houses in the heather the heather seemed grow around and between. The turf gathered two by two and two on top and thrown into the cart to be fitted in. The gates raised on four sides to take the gathered turf sods. A bird of prey perched upon a post, up and slowly flapped away.
Then slowly back again with the full load, walking and him on top, a return to soda bread and a stout-glass of milk.
A day out on lynam's bog with the ass and cart.
JL 27 Nov 10:35
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