Jonjo and The Turf Thieves

For hundreds of years, people throughout Ireland have cut turf from the peat bogs as
an inexpensive fuel for cooking food and keeping the house warm. Though not as
efficient as coal or wood, it is clean and light to handle. You can often tell when
someone has just visited a house with a turf fire, because its pleasant aroma clings to
their clothes. Bearded boffins fret over the carbon released into the atmosphere from
the abuse of valuable wetlands, and rant on about the destruction of wildlife habitats.
When times are hard, however, needs must and stacks of drying peat are still a
common feature of the rural landscape. But this tale is from an earlier time when the
removal of peat for any purpose went largely uncensured. Based on a true event, it
concerns a farmer who lived in the west of Ireland, so far west, in fact, that the next
parish was probably in America. Whilst visiting his stacks of turf in a local peat bog,
he made the unpleasant discovery that some were being stolen, but following a
chance conversation in a village shop, found a rather unusual and effective way to
deter the thieves.

Every springtime, Jonjo set off down the valley from his farm with his donkey and
cart and a few simple tools. The road to the peat bog passed through some wild and
rugged scenery and skirted the steep slopes of a mountain. At the turf bank, he would
meet up with a couple of old friends and the three of them could cut a year’s supply
of turf in three or four days. It was back-breaking work, but if the weather was fine,
they didn’t grumble. Turf cutting was a job that was often shared with neighbours or
friends, and when one man’s winter supply had been harvested, they would work on
another’s.

1
Using a sleán, a small spade with a flat upright edge, and working from the top and
the front of the bank, they cut out neat blocks of turf and scattered them over the bank
to dry. When it was time for a break, they boiled a billycan of water over a fire, and,
along with some buttered soda bread, enjoyed the strongest mugs of tea that you
could imagine. Afterwards, they lit up their pipes and debated the relative merits of
mountain and lowland peat, or just put the world to rights.

As spring turned into summer, Jonjo returned to the peat bog to pile up the drying
peat into tall stacks. These helped to shed any rain, of which there was always more
than enough to go round, and dry out the turf. It was during one of these visits that he
noticed that some of his turf was missing. At first, he though it was a trick of the
light, but on closer inspection saw that several of the stacks were much smaller, and
that a large sack of turf he had left to one side had disappeared. This was puzzling but
it was also worrying. People who worked the turf banks would never steal from other
stacks. They were friends or neighbours and everyone looked out for and trusted each
other. Looking around, Jonjo got the impression that some of the neighbouring peat
stacks were also depleted, but that his had suffered the worst. One possible
explanation could be that his were the nearest to the main road, and, further down the
valley, the path became inaccessible for vans or large carts.

On the way home, he called at Mrs Ned’s village store for a newspaper and a loaf of
bread. Whatever the shortcomings of Mrs Ned’s small shop, she always seemed to
have a supply of papers and fresh bread. He told her about the missing turf and she
expressed her surprise at this unusual occurrence. The road near the bog only went as
far as the village hall at Ballyfahy, but she couldn’t imagine anyone from that
pleasant village who would dream of doing such a deceitful thing. Her shop served as
a bar and a little man enjoying a pint across the room joined in the conversation.
Some years earlier, he had a pig stolen from his farm, but managed to catch the thief
when he returned by spending several nights sitting with the other pigs. Without a
doubt, the lying in wait had been an uncomfortable and smelly assignment but well
worth it in the end. Mrs Ned and Jonjo wondered if, while bonding with his new
companions, he had grunted occasionally. The man said he had not, for fear of being
carried away squealing in a bag. It gave them a good laugh, but it gave Jonjo an idea.

2
Over the next few weeks, turf continued to disappear from Jonjo’s stacks and the
cause remained a mystery. It was annoying because cutting the turf had been hard
work and now someone else would enjoy the benefits of his labour during the coming
winter. Then Jonjo recalled that, on Sunday evenings, the village hall at Ballyfahy
held a dance which was very popular and which attracted visitors from right across
the county and beyond. By varying the time of his visits to the peat bog, he soon
discovered that the turf was usually missing by Monday. With the long summer
evenings and late sunsets in the west of Ireland, it was unlikely that anyone would be
hanging around the peat bogs before the dance started because they would easily be
seen from the road. After the dance, however, it would be dark and most folks would
be hurrying home in their battered old cars to get some sleep before the week started
again. Of course, some may wish to leave the dance a little earlier for one reason or
another.

And so one Sunday evening, after the cars had made their way up to Ballyfahy for the
evening’s entertainment, Jonjo came down the track armed with little more than a few
empty sacks and a large torch to light his way. It was going to be a long wait but, if
he listened carefully, he could just hear the music drifting up the valley from the
village hall where everyone was enjoying themselves. As Mrs Ned would have said,
‘There’ll be a great crowd in it tonight.’ After sunset, the bog became alive with all
kinds of mysterious creaking and croaking sounds, and Jonjo shivered a little as he
sat there alone by the peat stacks. A cold wind rustled through the rushes, the moon
broke through the clouds, briefly illuminating an isolated stack, and a bird flapped
noisily in the darkness as it rose from the bog. He was not particularly superstitious,
but he had heard some strange stories over the years and it was the ones from his
childhood that always seemed to stick. Did he hear voices whispering behind a
stack? Was that someone limping down the path? Come on, get a grip of yourself,
man! In such circumstance, the imagination can play terrible tricks on one’s mind.
Indeed, an isolated bog is not a place to hang around alone at night without some
powerful refreshment; something rather stronger than a billycan of tea.

3
After a few hours, Jonjo heard the band at Ballyfahy striking up the last waltz and sat
up. In the words of the popular song, ‘the last dance should last forever’, but he
prayed it wouldn’t because he felt he’d been there that long already. He knew that
within half an hour or so, a procession of cars would be winding its way up the road
from the village. Suddenly, he heard the sound of a vehicle approaching from
Ballyfahy. It paused at the turning to the peat bog and then drove slowly down it.
This was it! Action Stations, Jonjo.

At this point, I’d like us to join the two occupants of the van as they let it freewheel
down the path to a sheltered spot where the ground was still firm. With the van at a
standstill, they chatted for a while about the dance and the young women who had
caught their attention. To be honest, not all their comments were flattering or
complimentary, and the toothless grins they exchanged suggested a certain lack of
something upstairs. Then, having joshed each other at their complete lack of dancing
skills, they stubbed out their cigarettes and set off down the path in the direction of
the nearest peat collection - Jonjo’s. With the moon hiding behind a large cloud which
had drifted in from the Atlantic, the bog was silent, dark and deserted.

Though they knew that not a soul would be around at that time of the night, they
crept quietly towards the peat stacks. Even without a torch, which might be seen for
miles, they could just make out several large sacks of turf lying in the darkness. How
considerate of the owner to have left them this generous supply of fuel so convenient
to the road. The sacks would store neatly in the back of the van and they would be off
and away before the crowd came up from Ballyfahy. It was all so easy. Just a quick
job.

They carried the first four sacks to the van and, having thrown them into the back,
covered them with a large grey blanket. The sacks were large, awkward and
surprisingly heavy. Perhaps the turf hadn’t dried fully and would need airing in the
barn back home. When they returned for the fifth and final sack, they found it to be
extremely heavy. One whispered to the other that the sack might contain some useful
tools which could be sold on if they didn’t need them. The other released a loosely
tied rope, pulled open the top of the sack, and they both peered inside. At that

4
moment, a powerful light filled the inside of the sack, illuminating a bearded face
from which a ghastly pair of eyes stared up at them. As they recoiled in horror at this
vision from hell, a voice from the gaping hole of a mouth cried ‘Why are you stealing
my turf?’

Well, as you can imagine, they took off down the path as if they had seen a ghost.
When the path finished, they ran deeper into the bog to where it merged with a small
stream and, slipping on some smooth rocks, ended up covered in mud and soaked to
the skin. Without pausing to admire the wild and rugged scenery, for the moon was
back in business again, the pair ran all the way back to Ballyfahy, but were too late to
cadge a lift from the band who had packed up and gone home. Much later, when they
had summoned enough courage to return to their van, the battery was flat because
they had left a light on inside. It was going to be a quick job, you see. Even the sacks
they had piled up in the van were just filled with rubbish and stones.

As for Jonjo and his neighbours? Well, they continued cutting the peat for many
years. They still discussed the relative merits of mountain and lowland peat, and put
the world to rights over a billycan of tea, but not a single piece of turf ever went
missing again.

Tony Crowley (c) 2011