Turf matters - and so do promises made to voters
It was the whiskey bottles of sweet tea wrapped in tea towels and hand-delivered by my mother that sticks in my memory most. Under cloudless skies, the sun glistened off the sweaty skin of my grandfather while my father, alongside neighbours, sat on the banks of the bog, wellies dangling over the edge.
Behind them, slices of freshly cut turf rested one on top of the other while ham sandwiches were consumed with relish.
Those work breaks were perfect in every way. There was nothing like a day in the bog. Though the slan has now been replaced by modern technology in many areas, there's still nothing quite like it. There's magic among the bog cotton.