The Scent That Stays With You

I was no more than seven when I first learned to stack turf on the bog. My father, weathered and silent, would drive us out early in the morning, the trailer bouncing behind us along narrow roads wrapped in mist. My job was simple — lay the bricks gently on their ends, two by two, leaning like friends against one another to dry in the rare Irish sun.

But what I remember most isn’t the stacking, or even the cold damp that crept into our socks. It’s the smell. That heavy, warm, smoky scent that would cling to our jumpers and our hair. When Da lit the fire at night, that was the moment the house became a home. Turf smoke curling up through the chimney, the sound of the kettle whistling, and the hum of the radio in the background — that was Ireland to me.

Even now, I live far from that bog. I'm in London, in a flat where the radiators buzz but never quite warm me the same way. But every so often, I’ll light one of those Irish peat candles I order online. And just like that, I’m home again. I’m seven years old, soot on my hands, the turf fire burning, and Mam setting out mugs of tea.