Original oil and acrylic on canvas by Andrew Gault
More by Andrew Gault
I have written before about sitting watching my father cut turf, being told not to wander save I fall into the bog. I still imagine I can sense the feeling of safety being protected by him, on the walk home I was allowed to carry a taller than me turf spade on my shoulder, as I struggled across the mire the feeling of safety as we reached the trees at our house is with me still. In my memory there are always three, sentinel to that white house in Fermanagh, now as an adult I wonder which Father guided us through the bog.
“Ours was the marsh country, down by the river, within, as the river wound, twenty miles of the sea. My first most vivid and broad impression of the identity of things, seems to me to have been gained on a memorable raw afternoon towards evening. “ - Charles Dickens.