One of my wife's abiding memories is getting off the ferry at Dunlaoghaire and the smell of turf from the houses chimneys just before Christmas.
She would also go for four weeks to her grandparents in County Mayo every summer. She often reminisces about going to the bog by donkey and cart and collecting the hand dug turf and bringing it back along the Boreen's and stacking it for the range in winter.
My dad told me how he left school when he was fourteen and his first job was digging turf in Clonee in Durrus. He would cycle there and back after a full days digging.
Number one son brought home some machined cut turf a few weeks ago and some logs.
The aroma is amazing. It reminds me of smoky Scottish malt whisky 🥃.