If you’ve spent any time in Ireland outside of Dublin, you know and love that characteristic smell of the Emerald Isle; the peaty scent of burning turf perfumes the air. It’s as welcome and evocative as the scent of a woodfire in fall, but it’s somehow more romantic, tinged with the lyrics and legends of an archetypical fantasy land. Within that scent, bogs, faeries, rainbows (real ones, not the creepy child-luring LGBTQ kind), leprechauns, and wandering gypsy rovers interplay with the anticipation of whisky burning the back of your throat, music and yellow light spilling from the doorways of pubs, the finest cream and butter in the world, hearty stews, and story-telling.
We’re staying in the heart of Ireland near the relatives we’re visiting, in a charming rented condo on the Shannon River. The new construction is clever and attractive and outfitted with all the mod cons. But along with the tidy European design comes the irritating nannying of the EU commissars, who never seem to tire of dreaming up new rules.
All the doors in this four-bedroom, four-bathroom condo close themselves, a rule that’s supposed to save us all from being burnt to death in our sleep. There are doorstops littering the floor of each room, so you can prop a door open if you like. There are no outlets in bathrooms except for one, labeled SHAVERS ONLY and outfitted with special sockets that only accept special plugs, those on electric razors. If you like to blow-dry your hair in front of a mirror or charge your electric toothbrush, you’re SOL, because we’re all presumably too stupid to use an electric device in a room that also has running water.
The hybrid car we rented is very nice but also has plenty of built-in safety systems. When you turn it on, it literally boots up — all the better to nag you. Don’t flip on a turn signal if someone is in your blind spot — you’ll get pinged at. If someone doesn’t have her seatbelt on, even in the back seat, the car will ding repeatedly until the offending scofflaw buckles up. On the dash panel, a helpful light shows you which passenger is the offender so you can bring them into line.
There are good things, too, of course. Ireland — at least where we are — still has an old-world feel to it, even in the new innovations. Our condo is outfitted with a nifty spin washer for clothes — and a fold-out rack for drying them. There’s a cute modern fireplace with a basket of wood and pellets next to it for supplemental heating, although the central heat works fine. It’s nice to see white men on the TV, too.
But the saddest (to me, anyway) EU rule that’s taking hold is the phase-out of burning peat as a source of heat and cooking. The relatives we visit are out in the country, farmers or tradesmen living on the edges of bogs. They’ve cut peat, aka turf, from the bog beds for who knows how many generations. The peat logs are left on the bank to dry out until they are ready to be stacked up for fuel. Then they are burned in fireplaces or, in the older cottages, stoves which also serve as ovens or stovetops.
A cousin who is a builder tells us that in new construction, it’s no longer permitted for houses to have chimneys.
If you’ve never sat in a rustic kitchen, in a comfy armchair by a peat fire with a cup of tea on your knee and caught up on the craic while the wind drives the rain horizontal outside, all I can say is I recommend it. It’s a timeless peace that is a gift for the spirit. And that smell! It sings of peaty whisky and delicious sausages and puddings — recipes and wisdom handed down through the centuries.
But along with the dairy livestock that supposedly dooms the weather with its emissions, peat-burning is being phased out by the geniuses at the EU. Instead, the Irish who still rely on stoves are told to burn smokeless coal. The black, oval pellets rest in buckets by the fireside, and they are certainly serviceable fuel. They reliably warm sitting rooms and heat tea water. But smokeless as they are, they don’t smell like anything when they burn.
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The locals with whom we chat always bring up two things about America: that everyone has a gun, and who do we think will win the 2024 election. On the subject of Trump, they grin and say it seems everyone wants him back in office. I get the feeling that they certainly do.
But the Irish are also loyal to the EU. They are a small country and they want the security and deal-cutting power that comes with being part of a large power bloc. They are team players, accepting of the wisdom handed down from Brussels and willing to do their part.
I think of the Irish culture I know, that is, the Irish in America. The songs and traditions about facing down the British and ejecting the “planters.” Yet the Irish nationalist party Sinn Fein is unrecognizable now. They can’t seem to import enough EU-approved foreigners fast enough, never mind Ireland’s crippling housing shortage or needy indigenous Gaels. Every news report now begins with how many hundreds are stockpiled on “trolleys” in hospital hallways, waiting for a bed, and how many critical biopsies and elective surgeries are being postponed. Everyone seems to know someone who died of cancer because they could never even schedule a biopsy.
Some of the relatives continue to stoke their hearth with turf, as they’ve always done. Others shuttle smokeless coal pellets into the fireplace, agreeably going along with the consensus. And I wonder what’s happened to the fighting spirit of the old songs.
Truth be told, America today isn’t the America I grew up in, either. And we certainly don’t live in log cabins and chop down trees to burn for warmth. Most of us now drive cars, not horses and buggies. Progress will happen, no matter what, and much of it will elevate everyone. We shouldn’t expect countries like Ireland or Greece or Holland — or any people anywhere — to remain old-timey theme-park parodies of themselves for our amusement.
But I hate to see the willingness with which some hand over their heritage and culture so they can be in the “mainstream” or cozy up to bigger, richer political bodies.
Was a pleasure to meet the Taoiseach of Ireland, @LeoVaradkar this week in Davos and hear about his unwavering commitment to Europe and investment in Ireland. 🇮🇪 🇪🇺#WEF24 pic.twitter.com/rzYcZQimMx
— Alex Soros (@AlexanderSoros) January 20, 2024
I’ve always fancied that the scent of burning peat that hangs over Ireland is an apt metaphor for the nation's soul, which it is now selling for security and prosperity. And who can blame it, I guess. The world turns. I both look forward to and dread my next visit to the old country — will the enchanting, ancient aroma of peat fire still perfume the air? Or, more likely, this trip will be the last time I smell it.
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