Children of the Bog

The thing about Irish people is that they know exactly what to do with children. Not to categorize people by their nationality; but, this curious fact is exactly what I was ruminating on while we sat in a busy pub cum restaurant in the small town of Navan in County Meath. We waited (and waited) for the spangle haired, eyebrow pierced waitress to put her beer down and come over. Finally she did and Patrick and I ordered Guinness while the kids piped up from under the seat from whence they had crawled, and from whence they were thwacking, ‘Two cokes, French fries and ice cream.’ The waitress laughed and walked away before we could correct the order.

Patrick and I looked at each other and shrugged. We usually try to have the kids eat healthfully, but we were in the wrong time zone and couldn’t think straight, so we quietly sipped Guinness and tried to ignore the banging under the table. Then, miracle upon miracles, the Goth girl came back and slapped down two snowy glasses of milk, fish and peas on the table near where the boys theoretically sat. ‘It’s what you ordered, isn’t it?’ bending under the table to greet them eye to eye. Needless to say we introduced her to American style tipping.

This particular day in July was like every other in Ireland during our stay: freezing cold and raining. I, personally, was ecstatic about this because I think I look better in sweaters and it’s an excuse to sit inside and read. The kids and husband; however, were bored out of their gords. So, I guided the mumbling group out of the lunch place to the car for a short (yet properly harrowing) drive to the outskirts of Navan. We were scheduled to participate in a working farm in the afternoon which Patrick particularly funny because we happen to live on one at home.

Once we got to Causey Farm, we just stopped the car; or, more correctly, the car stopped us. We simply drove until the road got too muddy and then left the car where it got stuck. Under normal circumstances, we would never even consider driving into a field and abandoning another person’s car in a bog. We were certainly hoping the Irish family staying in our house wasn’t doing the same thing. However, it seemed like the right thing to do. We felt guilty about it, but the buses carrying children were doing the same, so we looked back quickly and followed the group.

As we climbed up from the back field, we passed two ‘hordes’ of children being led by instructors striding firmly along in knee boats. We were clearly the only non school group there and definitely the only tourists. Slugging behind the hordes of children, I could feel my husband staring holes in my back. The ‘you have no idea where you have led us’ was emanating from him and; quite frankly, I was thinking the same.

When we finally crested the hill we could see through the driving rain to an outlay of farm buildings surrounding a slippery cobbled courtyard. Puppies rushed up to greet us and a handsome man with a large umbrella was pointing the hordes of children and teenagers toward covered pavilions to the left and, praise god and all his saints, pointing the adults toward an open door in an old stone house to the right. Our kids got directed along with us because of our status as the ‘only tourists’.

As we followed the teachers inside, we were met by a roaring fire (really, I did not read this in a book) and tables set longwise with homemade brown soda bread, jam, clotted cream and tea. Then, my eyes set on the most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life: a coffee urn. Having bravely sipped tea for two weeks, I almost knelt down and prayed a novena to the urn sitting in the middle of the snowy white table cloth. Heaven! Even the kids sat quietly with jam all over their mouths, their large eyes taking in the quick talking Irish going back and forth across the tables.

We found out that the handsome man and his lovely sister were descendents of the Murtagh family who had been farming in this region for over a thousand years. Besides the turf, they have beef cattle, sheep, ponies, barn cats and; of course, puppies. Our farm visit was to include a trip to the bogs, clay making, bubble blowing and Bodhran lessons. And, of course, all the coffee, fresh milk and bread we could inhale. The kids just nodded their heads not understanding anything but tasty jam and a dry, warm room.

After an extended chat with the owners and some very entertaining teachers, we put on our gear and went out into the rain that had turned from steady to driving. Mr. Murtagh joked that it’s the only variation in the weather you’ll experience in Ireland. Once in the courtyard, the teachers transformed from laughing, joking laid back people to perfect militant organizers: lining children up, backing up farm trucks, demanding covers to open beds, making sure all the children had all the limbs they arrived with and driving the entire singing, laughing, rustling group out about 4 miles to the bog fields. As we followed behind, a tractor passed us and stopped, beeping his horn. The teacher on board yelled out ‘don’t the kids want to ride?’ Mine jumped on before I could speak and the caravan carried on. We held hands and walked very slowly through the rain.

When we got to the bog every child was partially naked and completely covered in mud. Thank God a teacher we met named Kate pointed out our children, otherwise we never would have recognized them. Everyone was screeching and swinging from low branches and falling into the bog. Larger children were hauling smaller children to the side when they got stuck. Some of the teachers had gone in with the kids, but were playing themselves – whacking each other and various targets with mud.

Can you find the American children?

Francis! Johnny! I called out and thirty children turned their heads. ‘Not the most limiting of names to cry out in the middle of Ireland,’ Patrick dryly noted. My two muddy messes came forward and the rest of the group followed the teachers toward a path toward an obstacle course they called ‘Challenge Course’ that somehow made everyone even muddier. After everyone was completely worn out, the tractors picked us up to drive us back. There, we had warm showers, changed clothes and participated in the clay modeling, bubble blowing and the rolling around with the puppies.

Stuffed with more jam and tea (read coffee), wrung out, muddy (again), and barely awake, we lumbered back to the car and realized the rain had made our car situation worse. The wheels were half way covered in mud. Luckily, a few sheep shearers were taking a break drinking ‘something’ under a small shed and came over to help Patrick and a few men teachers literally lift the vehicle up and put it on the high road. They were appalled at Patrick’s attempt to tip them. Finally, we dug some Guinness bottles out of the trunk and they grudgingly accepted them with the stipulation that we tell our friends about the farm. I have just done so here so will sign off for now.