Speaking of turf

Late breakfasts of fresh hen eggs and isolated walks on the wind swept cliffs. The light in the afternoon is terrific. The western sun rests like a fisherman's buoy over the Atlantic. Their place was actually an old bar but you'd never know it to look at it now. The old lady served only whiskey and bottled Guinness to the all male clientele. There was no running water. The toilet was out back in the field—anywhere you liked. She ran this little shebeen through the mid-ninties far away from the roar and bitter breath of the Celtic Tiger. The health department finally shut her down. For those visitors not familiar with turf—that's what's in the wheelbarrow. Its sweet smell permeates the house.