What We Burn

When we first moved to this house, I didn't know what to do with this little fireplace. No door? And so small? So inefficient, I sniffed, missing my Irish Wexford woodstove back in Santa Cruz. 

Now I build a campfire in the living room every night,  I wouldn't want to live without one. 

In California, we have a cord of wood delivered to the driveway. Here, we buy solid fuel at the gas station. 

"Logs" are 6-inch pine rounds and quarters from plantation-grown trees about 8 inches around.  Neat little wooden cubes, but I don't like them. 

Logs burning at Patsy Dan's pub. 

"Turf" is the traditional fuel of song and legend. Locals still cut and dry it in nearby bogs. Sold by the sack for €5. Smells great, but isn't as warm as wood. It's basically dried compost. The fuel of poor people in a land missing its stolen trees. 

"Briquettes" are processed turf. Neat rectangles, in bales of twenty for €5. People tell me manufacture will end soon because they contribute CO2—both when burned, and via the opened bog land. I like them best. 

We can get three kinds of coal at the gas station. We buy the middle-priced one, "Columbian coal," three bags for €25. It seems exceedingly cheap for something that heavy coming such a long distance. We go through that much in a month. 

I love coal. A lump of coal is a magical stone that burns, even when wet.  Just build a little fire with sticks under the black lumps that quickly catch fire and send out a lovely heat. They store indefinitely with no bugs or rot. 

You might sniff and say "burning solid fuel for heat and entertainment is so inefficient," I know. But I didn't have any kids, so I get to do what I want.