Beautiful brush!
There is something about an Irish Bog Oak handle.
Especially with a mammoth-hair knot!
Possibly dire-wolf.
AA
Beautiful brush!
There is something about an Irish Bog Oak handle.
Especially with a mammoth-hair knot!
Possibly dire-wolf.
AA
Its resin stabilized with a couple of coats of lacquer over it.Top notch as usual Mr. Vey - what is the finish?
There are some words that triggers sometimes a reaction. Some years ago, I was able to acquire some Cuban Mahogany, and made brushes from it. I had several of my customer's funds held by paypal as the word "Cuban" triggered a hold. I had to contact paypal to get the funds released. Took about some 10 days to get the money into the account.Oh, the Canadian Wildlife folks came to my door. I caved and told them where you live. Sorry, but you got some ‘splainin’ to do.
Weirdly, the biggest no-no to ship from the US to Canada I have seen is Brazilian rosewood. I almost had to smuggle a custom bass guitar into Canada but I was above board and paid almost $200. Only the fingerboard was rosewood. Crazy.
Crazy but I get it. The rules aren’t meant for small businesses but they are the ones that it affects the most it seems.There are some words that triggers sometimes a reaction. Some years ago, I was able to acquire some Cuban Mahogany, and made brushes from it. I had several of my customer's funds held by paypal as the word "Cuban" triggered a hold. I had to contact paypal to get the funds released. Took about some 10 days to get the money into the account.
Whenever I buy knots from Shavemac, I ask them to put a copy of my permit from Fish and Game in the shipping papers. With this, the importation is quite easy and I get my order very fast. The last time they forgot it, and it took me over two weeks to get it released. Contacted FEDEX (try this....) and eventually got someone to respond to me; I was able to show them my permit and the shipment was released. It is sometimes a pita.....
I didn’t think you were THAT old.
I'm too damn familiar with bogs. When I was a kid my father put me on a flight to Shannon Airport every year the day after school let out so that I could work the bog for his mother. As was the case in most of rural Ireland in those days, dried peat or "turf" was how she heated her home. She even still did a fair bit of cooking in the hearth, despite the fact that she had a gas cooker in the kitchen. Digging the peat was always the easy part; 'footing' the turf, turning it over and stacking it in little tripod shapes to dry was monotonous and backbreaking. Just I and an old bachelor uncle on the bog for weeks at a time. When all the turf was saved, my granny sent me 20 miles east to my mother's mother, where another bog awaited me. I spent virtually the entire summer sloshing around a peat bog for about 8 years. My cousins laughed their way out of working on the bog, saying "We'll save the bog for The Yank. He loves the bog. Sure, he thinks it's a magical place." I hated them. Miles from nowhere, my uncle would get all embarrassed if on the rare sunny warm day I removed my shirt. Not a sinner in sight, and he'd be worried about modesty. Finally, exhausted, I'd go back to Boston in September where everyone told me how lucky I was to spend 3 months in Ireland every summer.It was a grey day, raining if I recall. LOL
I probably still won't!Gotta outlast the blade stash!
My grandfather grew potatoes in what was called peat dirt. It was a dried up lake. Very fertile dirt. My mother recalls it would catch on fire and actually smolder and the fix was to go out with the cultivator and mix it up. It was very fine and had a lot of tiny, almost microscopic sea shells. It would make you itch. So in a way nothing like the peat moss bales we get at the garden store which I'm guessing is more like the peat you were used to but nonetheless called peat.I'm too damn familiar with bogs. When I was a kid my father put me on a flight to Shannon Airport every year the day after school let out so that I could work the bog for his mother. As was the case in most of rural Ireland in those days, dried peat or "turf" was how she heated her home. She even still did a fair bit of cooking in the hearth, despite the fact that she had a gas cooker in the kitchen. Digging the peat was always the easy part; 'footing' the turf, turning it over and stacking it in little tripod shapes to dry was monotonous and backbreaking. Just I and an old bachelor uncle on the bog for weeks at a time. When all the turf was saved, my granny sent me 20 miles east to my mother's mother, where another bog awaited me. I spent virtually the entire summer sloshing around a peat bog for about 8 years. My cousins laughed their way out of working on the bog, saying "We'll save the bog for The Yank. He loves the bog. Sure, he thinks it's a magical place." I hated them. Miles from nowhere, my uncle would get all embarrassed if on the rare sunny warm day I removed my shirt. Not a sinner in sight, and he'd be worried about modesty. Finally, exhausted, I'd go back to Boston in September where everyone told me how lucky I was to spend 3 months in Ireland every summer.
Not to hijack the thread but peat moss is usually relatively young decaying mosses partially broken down by acidic water. The stuff burned as fuel is much more ancient vegetation- a form of proto-coal, if you will.My grandfather grew potatoes in what was called peat dirt. It was a dried up lake. Very fertile dirt. My mother recalls it would catch on fire and actually smolder and the fix was to go out with the cultivator and mix it up. It was very fine and had a lot of tiny, almost microscopic sea shells. It would make you itch. So in a way nothing like the peat moss bales we get at the garden store which I'm guessing is more like the peat you were used to but nonetheless called peat.
I'm too damn familiar with bogs. When I was a kid my father put me on a flight to Shannon Airport every year the day after school let out so that I could work the bog for his mother. As was the case in most of rural Ireland in those days, dried peat or "turf" was how she heated her home. She even still did a fair bit of cooking in the hearth, despite the fact that she had a gas cooker in the kitchen. Digging the peat was always the easy part; 'footing' the turf, turning it over and stacking it in little tripod shapes to dry was monotonous and backbreaking. Just I and an old bachelor uncle on the bog for weeks at a time. When all the turf was saved, my granny sent me 20 miles east to my mother's mother, where another bog awaited me. I spent virtually the entire summer sloshing around a peat bog for about 8 years. My cousins laughed their way out of working on the bog, saying "We'll save the bog for The Yank. He loves the bog. Sure, he thinks it's a magical place." I hated them. Miles from nowhere, my uncle would get all embarrassed if on the rare sunny warm day I removed my shirt. Not a sinner in sight, and he'd be worried about modesty. Finally, exhausted, I'd go back to Boston in September where everyone told me how lucky I was to spend 3 months in Ireland every summer.
It would have been your @$$, not mine. The Canadian Wildlife Federation is not to be trifled with.
A while back Herr Vey acquired a piece of Bog Oak. Indeed a mysterious and regal chunk of wood. Very ancient...very attractive. This is what an artisan can do with such wonderful material.
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Coming soon is a Koraat 14 2.0 fitted with Bog Oak scales. Should be here in 2-3 weeks. Gonna be a nice set for sure.
Ought to see about getting a presentation case made one day
In my early twenties I dated an older Russian woman who affectionately referred to me as her "little bogtrotter."Nor apparently is the governing body for maple syrup.
Seeing as I am a hopper of bogs, I should probably add a bog brush (sic) to my collection at some point.
I did not know this, though it makes sense that it would be, after being removed from it's 6000 year old grave. I know stuff from shipwrecks have to be handled carefully (or so I've read!)Treat well this beauty as the wood is a bit fragile.
I did not know this, though it makes sense that it would be, after being removed from it's 6000 year old grave. I know stuff from shipwrecks have to be handled carefully (or so I've read!)
Didn't the guys in "The Brown Leaf" commission a pipe made of this type of wood? My brain ain't the best...Usually this kind of wood might have hidden cracks, but if you take care of it, it will last forever.