You step outside and turn left, downhill toward Kinsale harbour. It’s night in late October. Light spills from the windows of nearby homes, and the air is earthy and rich — probably from peat stoves. You’ve read and heard of peat and its smell, and you've gotten whiffs of it from canal boats in London, but you’ve never had your own peat fire. You’ve spent your life going on secondhand peat information.
Kinsale is a small town in southern Ireland, and you and your family are here for a long weekend. The house you’re staying in has a small stove, and you’re walking to the local grocery store for groceries — and peat bricks. The fireplace is already a highlight of the trip. Back home, your flat has no fireplace. Your wife often watches a fire on TV — cozy, but not truly warm.
Under dim streetlights, you step on yellow and orange leaves on the trees and ground. Your breath curls in the cold air, then vanishes. Fog hangs low. From the hill, you occasionally glimpse the harbour. You keep walking downhill, toward the grocery store lights.
As you pass a particularly clear view of the water, you press play on your phone and “Crimson Tide” by Destroyer begins. You hadn’t heard it much before, but within seconds you knew it had the labyrinthine, elliptical qualities you love about the band's longer songs. You walk on through the crisp, dark air, on your way to get peat bricks.
