Episode 28 -When The Turf Wars Began..

Dad died on a Monday – November 2023. We buried him that Wednesday. It was a quiet, cold affair, the kind of stillness that clings to you in November. But before the grief could even settle, before I could catch my breath, the winds started to shift and not in my favor. The very next day, Thursday morning, Bully turns up, marching up to the front of the house with a brand-new post box and drills it in right outside the front door. For Dad’s post. The man hadn’t even been in the ground 24 hours and already the message was clear: the takeover had begun.

I remember just standing there, watching this display like some surreal performance. My head was spinning. Who was it for? Why now? Why like this?But that was just the opening act.

That Saturday, I waited for the turf delivery. Same as every year. It had been ordered already before Dad passed. No sign of it. I thought maybe the funeral delayed things. These things happen.

The next Saturday came still no turf. Now, bear in mind, Dad had been getting over €1800 a year from the government not to cut turf from his bog plot. It was a long-standing support and every year the turf showed up without fuss -until this year. So I rang my other brother, confused. I asked if he’d heard anything about the delay. That’s when he told me: Bully had cancelled it.

Just like that. No call. No explanation. No turf.

And then the cherry on top: I was told that if I wanted turf, I could pay for it myself – €450 I didn’t have . Let me say that again : I was left without heat, without turf, without warning and told I could buy back the warmth that had already been part of the home routine for years.

That winter was bitter. Inside and out. Not just from the lack of turf but from the quiet cruelty of it all. It wasn’t about the fuel. It was about control. About pushing people out one inconvenience at a time. No turf. No inheritance. No dignity in grief.

Just a new post box and a very clear message: This is mine now. You’re not part of it. Looking back, that moment was the start of what I now call The Turf Wars. Not just over bog-land and briquettes but over legacy, control and the silent erasure of those who don’t fall in line.

Well, here I am. Writing it down. Because if warmth won’t come through the hearth, it’ll come through truth.

Lesson of the Day: How bloody stupid was I then? Waiting on turf… thinking fairness still lived here.( Let’s all have a collective laugh – then get back to stacking our own fuel.)