How to Build a Turf Fire

It’s my first time building a turf fire. The tent is pitched. We’ve just finished a picnic supper atop a sand dune. David is chilling two cans of Irish brew in a plastic bag of captured seawater. All that remains for the evening is to warm ourselves by a fire.

Operating on the assumption that turf bricks burn the same as wooden logs, I’ve tilted three bricks to form a pyramid with a fourth brick inside. I’ve stuffed small bundles of dry grass inside for kindling.

Turf logs are smooth, black-brown bars that break easily into smaller bricks. I bought two logs of about twenty bricks at a gas station for 2.50 euro. I asked the teenaged boy behind the register how to get them started. “You just make a fire and throw them in,” he answered. Further questioning as to the more specific technique of building a turf fire got me nowhere. He grew more embarrassed as the line behind me grew longer – I guess he wasn’t a boy scout.

I strike the lighter and touch the flame to the grass. After some strategic moving of bricks, adding of grass, rearranging of rock ring to block fierce ocean winds, I get it going. Note – next time, have proper wood stick kindling, also purchasable at gas station.

Warmth! The inner brick melts to white and flakes away into hot coals. The smell of turf is deep and earthy, creating a circle of the blue smoke that drifts skyward. We lean in closer, and I notice a man walking toward us through the dunes. His body is blown sideways by the blast of wind, but he keeps his determined walk. Soon he’s arrived at our fireside.

“Watch out for the wild animals,” he says. Each word curls across his lips in a thick North Kerry accent. He sounds each word in a melodic arch. The word “wild” conjures all the barbed, blood-dripping jaws of all the saber-toothed, primordial beasts of the world. “They ate two campers last night.” “Look,” he says, pointing with his walking stick, “over there’s their bones.”

I don’t see any bones. I see piles of animal droppings. They are the only signs of life in these dunes. It is hard to imagine rabbits and sheep eating campers.

Craic! Pronounced “crack,” it’s the Irish word for a bit of fun, enjoyment, and general shenanigans.

The warmth of his humor around the peat fire is all very pleasant and good. His black lab companion laps it up too, panting happily at his owner’s feet.

We chat a bit longer then they’re off again. Each night they walk in pursuit of rabbits. His pup hasn’t caught one yet.