The cuckoo and the peat cutting team

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It was the cuckoo’s familiar chant that heralded my arrival back to 17 New Tolsta, pitched forward into the wind and perched on a boundary fence post it’s mellow voice striking out the welcome like the hourly chimes of a copiously carved black forest clock. They say it appeared early this year with the dry cold April and now with a delayed spring it still sings as this year’s crop of young rabbits graze on the first sweet grass of the year. The hill escarpment across the valley still sports its winter brunet patchwork of heather against the silver beige dead grass and beyond the inky blue skies tell me to expect heavy showers from the north. The urgency to be out there on the moor cutting peat must hold a while longer but yesterday John A gave me a hand to cut the turf from the entire length of the bank and with that done the hardest physical part is over and the rhythmical methodical cutting can commence. I like to look on this activity as keeping me fit but John points out that after a long inactive winter many rush out keen and energetic to get started only to suffer a heart attack. This was confirmed later that same day when I was told by an elderly woman that one of the men in the village had only last week had a canary out at his peat bank. Translation from the Gaelic is not always precise and I wondered if perhaps she had a coronary in a cage that sang as sweetly as that cuckoo.



Last Saturday I joined John A, his son Finlay, DJ and two others from New Tolsta to cut peats way out at the edge of the moor beyond Garry beach. We where five up in the trailer and as we crossed the bridge to nowhere and bounced along the track under leaden grey skies and a bitter nip in the breeze from the east, I was told it was a great day for cutting peat, not too warm so no midges and thankfully no rain. There were three of us cutting and three throwing so progress was quick as we started the smaller of the two banks where we would only be cutting two deep. John A and I took the lower section which proved to be very boggy as John sank to within an inch of the top of his boots and struggled at times to pull them out to move forward. On the second and longer bank we cut three deep which meant throwers on the first cut had to do some serious chucking and I was glad to be one of the lighter members of our team although I wasn’t going to escape scot-free and so my turn came on the lower levels where my fingers finally lost all feeling to the cold slimy peat as I heaved out slabs of peat heavier than the family bible throwing them in regimented form to dry over the hope for summer months. After an early start we made a mid morning break for tea ham rolls and jam filled scones. The banter was jovial and the term “many hands make light work” certainly worked for we were back home before mid day which left plenty of time to get two stiff whiskies and lager in before Margery called us in for our meal and what a spread. They teased me that I wasn’t doing too badly for a vegetarian as I tucked into the pie. We returned to the lounge to continue the Saturday football coverage and more whiskey but tiring of “the beautiful game” I eventually rolled out around three to get a bit more of my garden dug before tomorrow’s thick sea fog is upon us. The un-caged cuckoo called out from the low scrub and I was sure he would have no respect for the silence of the Sunday.

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