You can't move on the country by-roads, this time of year, without being stuck behind a Ford 4600 pulling a load of turf.
This year, for the first year since we got off Cromwell's boat, the Miltiades family have no turf. I will miss the turf this year, the sweet, damp smell of it in the house, and wafting up the lane. I'll miss the crumbly, craggy feeling of handling it, the great heat out of it, turf as a topic of conversation for visitors; turf mould for the garden beds. We will never find a use for all these empty 10,10,20 bags.
The Department and the EU habitats directive have finally closed-off the bog at home, it's strictly for the skylark, the grouse, and the meadow pipit, now. It's only fair I suppose, but it's sad to face into a winter with no turf.
Are you still bringing home the turf?