Hunting for Cipíns

Submitted by Kevin Ó hÉanna (Bio at end)

In the depths of June, I found myself in a small town on the east coast of Scotland trying to finish off a master’s thesis. I found the Scottish summer different to the Irish one- it lingers. In June it never fully gets dark, you end up not sleeping much and you march through the days in a bewildered haze. Even though I was not that far north, I could notice the difference. I found it hard to get into a routine. I couldn’t do a 9-5 for writing a thesis, I had to leave it to the nights, or what was the makings of them in those months.

            I lived at the edge of that town, away from historic cobbled centre in a drab estate built sometime in the 70’s. There were fields across the road though. They were bright yellow from the rapeseed flowering. Good fertile land around that town, probably some of the best in the country. Those fields rose a hill and you were able to get a good view of the entire town and to the North Sea beyond. Among them was a thin strip of woods dividing the fields. I used to go up there, in the evenings to take breaks from the thesis. I’d usually just walk around, give a look out at the North Sea, or lie down and gaze up at the leaves.

            On this evening though I had a purpose to my visit; I was hunting for cipíns. Little pieces of kindling lying around the woods that you would use to get the fire going. I needed them because I was going to light a bonfire on the beach and have cans with my friends, as it was going to be the 21st of June later that week. I was never too familiar with any of the summer solstice traditions, but I did reckon it’d be a good excuse to get locked on a beach and not worry about looming deadlines for an evening. The bonfire would of course need wood, big logs could easily be bought in a shop. Cipíns on the other hand, which were essential for getting the fire started, could only be found up in the woods.

            I made my way up, armed with a handful of Aldi bags tied to the handlebars of my bicycle, which I wheeled through the narrow track between the fields of rapeseed. I left the bike at the entrance of the woods and headed with my bags. Climbing up about halfway I began my hunt. I scurried around, crunching over the ground scanning for the best cipíns. It had been an unusually dry summer, so there was no need to sort through the soggy and rotten ones. I picked them up in great big handfuls, the brittle and thick, snapping the long ones so they would fit in the bag. I took another few steps and did the same, crisscrossing the woods for the best cipíns.

            In the midst of all this methodical searching I realised I was being transported away from Scotland over to the west of Ireland. I was younger, with my brother, down in the forest at the back of the old house filling old coal sacks with cipíns for the night’s fire. I remember, I wasn’t fond of that job, and neither was my brother. We’d rather just be wandering around the trees than having to work there. We were lucky to have it though. It was small enough, just under an acre. Planted by my grandad sometime in the 70’s, they sat on a hill, rows of non-native pine. That’s what most of the woods were like round those parts. Farmers planting the fast-growing species in order to make a few bob from their land in 30 years’ time. I don’t think there are any ‘natural’ forests left, and if there were, they were probably new enough plantations. There was nothing really like an ancient forest, that was long gone, relegated to a state of mythology. This little forest though, planted by my grandad, was supposedly grown especially for his grandkids to play around in. Never to be cut down and sold. As a city boy I couldn’t have asked for more. A whole forest to yourself, to wander in and do whatever you like. I’d spend all day in there, just wandering. When I was ordered then to go collect cipíns I was never too pleased. It didn’t feel right, this was a forest for idling in. It shouldn’t have been used for a purpose- well that was my reasoning anyways.

         Landing back in Scotland, this little memory stuck with me for the rest of the evening. Yes, it was probably just a bit of childhood nostalgia, but it felt like more. This little ritual of hunting for cipíns- I had come to enjoy it. It was methodical, mindful, you weren’t chopping down all the trees or anything, you were just taking what had fallen to the floor. Going at it again I scurried up and down the woods filling the last of my Aldi bags and propped them up on my handlebars, stuffing some more into the back of my rucksack. It would be a good bonfire, my friends would buy logs from the local garage, but the fire wouldn’t get going without the cipíns. It was the same back in the west, the cipíns were the starters before the turf got lumped in.
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           Before heading back down to my house, I walked up to the top of the hill at the end of the strip of woods and gazed out onto the North Sea. I expected the sun to be setting, to be glimmering, but it was still high at nine in the evening. I looked around and saw that there weren’t really any other woods. A few hedgerows here and there, but the rest was large fields of rapeseed and oats. There are not many forests in Scotland. This is a shared history with Ireland. I was told many times in school that Ireland was once upon a time completely covered in forest, it was the same for Scotland. I couldn’t imagine these two countries covered in their native woodland. It was alien. What about all the wide-open bogs and mountains in the west and the Highlands? Those barren and beautiful lands. It was all a human creation.

           That sliver of woods was a respite for me on that long summer where I had to finish a thesis that I thought would never end. When I finally did finish it, and was able to leave that small town, I felt the need to thank the woods. It felt strange, but I wanted to thank it for the respite it gave me. I wanted to thank it for the cipíns it provided me for that solstice bonfire, for transporting me back to a time in my childhood doing the same. That little ritual. The hunt to get the night’s fire going. Those little sticks that had fallen to the ground for sustenance. Maybe too many fires were lit. More than just cipíns were used, whole woods gone, for when the sun would fall and may never rise again. But it did. The trees would not rise again though, they vanished, and all that was left was that little sliver of woods, between the fields up on that hill.


By Kevin Ó hÉanna

Author Bio: Kevin Ó hÉanna is a short story writer from Dublin. He holds a master’s degree in Postcolonial Literature from the University of St Andrews, having previously studied at Trinity College. He has been published in The Irish Times, Inklight and in an anthology in conjunction with Fighting Words.

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