THE CALL TO THE MOOR

 

The walk out to my peat banks above Garry beach would have normally taken me about half an hour, twenty minutes if I’d cut across the beach instead of following the road around via Garry bridge. However these days I drive, I’m not saying I couldn’t walk that far, simply that I need to reserve my energy for the work rather than the walk. Since mid-April the weather has been kind for those of us who still carrying out the old traditional of cutting peat as fuel. I’m not concerning myself here with what form of energy is better or more environmentally friendly, simply illustrating the vestiges of a centuries old way of life. I’m a hopeless romantic and an artist to boot, so when I feel the call of the moor, it is with purpose, sharpen and soak the tarasgeir, repair the spade handle and make sure that also is sharp. I didn’t cut any peat last year, one needs to be in reasonable health and I was still recovering from radio treatment to my back. A peat bank left uncut soon deteriorates and last year’s fine summer dried the face out to reveal large cracks. This means the outer cut on the face is harder to remove, coming away in great amorphous lumps, but a couple of cuts in all returns to normal.

 My peat stack is looking very meagre and I’m trying to economise in the hopes that I can make it last until the end of July when this year’s cut with a drying wind will be ready to bring home. I had wondered if I would ever cut peat again, and maybe totally beholding on help from friends. Asking for help doesn’t come easily for me, and given that the work is so physically demanding significantly reduces who I can ask. So I did the rounds and found a few who were willing and fit enough to give a hand. Half a century ago we were being told that automation and robots would mean people would have increased spare time on their hands. Evidently others saw that as an opportunity to knuckle in on all that free time and find ways of occupying the masses with pointless games and irrelevant information. I’ve always preferred to invent my own games, never dancing to the tune of others. Back then children spent most of their free time outside and had a very different outlook on that freedom we took for granted. Let me make it clear, I wasn’t looking for free child labour, but traditionally it was a given that everyone took part in the cutting of peat including children. That may explain why many older folk abhor the idea going anywhere near a peat bank. It was expected growing up on a farm that when there was work that needed doing we would help out, no question of payment and never any pocket money. I well remember at the age of twelve demanding hourly wages from my father for laying an extremely large cement floor in the grain store. He asked me how much I wanted to be paid, and I said a shilling and hour. He agreed, but after twenty hours of hard graft I realised I’d only earned a pound. There was no question of renegotiation, but a valuable lesson had been learned. It is hard to put an hourly rate on traditional labour that some now seem to have turned on its head and charge the unsuspecting tourist for a “peat cutting experience”. I wanted experienced workers and not someone out for a holiday photo opportunity.

Before even starting to cut the peat there is the removal of the turf that everyone will agree is the hardest part, but with a team of four it certainly isn’t as bad as when I would labour away on my own. Working as part of a team is great, but I still enjoy of a clear summers evening heading out on my own to the moor and my peat banks. As the sun dips and a gentle easterly prevents any chance of overheating I see my silhouette cast across the drying peats. There is also purpose to my counting with each slice of the iron, I don’t want to overdo it, cutting thirty and then stepping off the bank to throw them. I could hardly call it throwing, but I get there in stages. I have increased my quota to 200, and with the throwing that is quite enough. I think I’m at the half way stage, but at the weekend weather permitting I will have more help and we may even complete the job. Then I’ll be out to set them up, or maybe just sit back with my flask of coffee and admire the view out across the Minch; listen to the thrum of the waves at high tide, the call of the curlews bringing back childhood memories, and let the world slip by, counting my lucky stars that I can still enjoy that call to the moor.