... the old fellow in South Lochs who wanted a 'cogadh beag...
'a small war, far off, that will put up the price of sheep...'
Wednesday, 24 February 2010
Sunday, 14 February 2010
Aimsir Eachainn, Vol. 2, Friday 22nd December 1989
Santa Speaks English
Do you know this: I remember my first Christmas like it was yesterday. Our house did not have a chimney. There was just a hole above the fire in the middle of the room [in fact, lar - floor]. Santa fell through the thatch and the peak of the rafters caught his beard and, unless he had a parachute, he would burn his buttocks in the ashes.
'Look at that now,' shouted my grandmother. 'Isn't Santa good to you?'
Who did she think she was kidding? I recognized the big feet of Iain Thormoid well enough. Did they think that they could get me to believe that Santa had size l2s. And even if he did have [literally: were to have], would he come from Lapland with a hole in his boot? Not only that but he had a jumper around his ribs that I saw on the knitting needles of my grandmother only the week before.
Dear God! they were thinking that we were blunt. Anyway the poor bloke fell through the roof (he was lucky we had not got the stove yet), he started to swing on the pot-hanger singing 'Jingle Bells'. And he thought that I would believe that he was Santa. It must have been that he was delirious; he did not stop singing even though the legs of his trousers went on fire.
Anyway, a neighbour cut him down and laid him out on the sofa. But he still remembered I was there: 'There's your apple, my boy. Go on now, get me a drink of water.'
Although I was only four, I recognized that he had spoken in English, and it surprised me, at that time: the odd things that will that pop into the heads of grown-ups. It was not just that that he imagined that Santa would not speak Gaelic but of all languages he might speak, it would be English.
I was a little upset that my knowledge of English was not sufficient to answer in that language, but in any case I said. 'Aye, aye, sir.' Something I had heard from the old man. I did not let on that I had recognized him, but I thought that I ought to get him a drink of water in any case.
Satan was at that time living in our glen. Well that was what my grandmother said, and although I did not believe in Santa, I had not a shadow of doubt about the other lad. And it was when the sun went down that this one woke up. As a result I was scared to death of the dark. And I was not alone. I would have to walk home with all the other boys, one after another, although my knees were knocking. (Satan was in every glen.) But not everyone had the same fear as me. Now I have to admit that I was a bit slow not notice at that time that Santa was an anagram of Satan - and more amazing still I have never heard any mention of it from a teacher. I did not listen much to that 'tribe' anyway. And I am not the better for it.
All the time that those thoughts were going through my mind, Santa was stretched out on the sofa crying out, ' Won't you bring me a mouthful of water.' Trying to make me think that he was from Lapland. [Perhaps by using 'uisge' for water whereas a native Lewisman would always use 'burn' for drinking water and 'uisge' only for rainwater*]. Now in the olden days the pails of water were stored in the 'closet' [a sort of enclosed larder in the coolest part of the house **]. The light of the Tilley lamp did not reach to the door of the 'closet'. (A hole from which Satan would not shift I am sure). But there are things that a boy has to do before he is a man. [duine - strictly a grown-up person].
I caught hold of the quart mug and I dived in to the darkness whistling and calling out ' I won't be long.' Although Satan is pretty clever, he would not catch me that night.
Fortunately, at the moment when I was close to the pails as I am to you just now, an owl let out a screech from the other end of the house and my heart nearly jumped out of my chest [cochall - the container or sheath - related to the English 'the cockles of your heart'?] My arm knocked against the nearest pail, I filled the mug and cleared out [thug (or thog) mo chasan orm - literally I took, or lifted, my feet on myself].
There was not much left in the quart mug when I reached Santa, but Satan had the upper hand. 'Dear God,' he said, ' aren't you the lad, finding thickened milk [natural yoghurt - made by leaving bowls of milk in the closet] in three minutes.'
'Aye, aye, sir,' I said, trying to make out again that I did not know who it was. But I was sure, if there was anything un-natural around, that it would understand English'.
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* Bha sin a' chiad mearachd a rinn mise na Gaidhlig a riamh. 'Oh,' thuirt mise air stairsnich taigh Leodhsaich - 'tha Gaidhlig agam - ahem: "tha mi ag iarraidh uisge".' Bha sinn nar campaich ag an am ud agus 's docha gur mo faclan a chuir iongadh air fear an taigh - seo neach-turais a bha ag iarraidh droch aimsir!
**http://5dalmore.blogspot.com/2008/03/milky-way-to-heavenly-delights.html
Do you know this: I remember my first Christmas like it was yesterday. Our house did not have a chimney. There was just a hole above the fire in the middle of the room [in fact, lar - floor]. Santa fell through the thatch and the peak of the rafters caught his beard and, unless he had a parachute, he would burn his buttocks in the ashes.
'Look at that now,' shouted my grandmother. 'Isn't Santa good to you?'
Who did she think she was kidding? I recognized the big feet of Iain Thormoid well enough. Did they think that they could get me to believe that Santa had size l2s. And even if he did have [literally: were to have], would he come from Lapland with a hole in his boot? Not only that but he had a jumper around his ribs that I saw on the knitting needles of my grandmother only the week before.
Dear God! they were thinking that we were blunt. Anyway the poor bloke fell through the roof (he was lucky we had not got the stove yet), he started to swing on the pot-hanger singing 'Jingle Bells'. And he thought that I would believe that he was Santa. It must have been that he was delirious; he did not stop singing even though the legs of his trousers went on fire.
Anyway, a neighbour cut him down and laid him out on the sofa. But he still remembered I was there: 'There's your apple, my boy. Go on now, get me a drink of water.'
Although I was only four, I recognized that he had spoken in English, and it surprised me, at that time: the odd things that will that pop into the heads of grown-ups. It was not just that that he imagined that Santa would not speak Gaelic but of all languages he might speak, it would be English.
I was a little upset that my knowledge of English was not sufficient to answer in that language, but in any case I said. 'Aye, aye, sir.' Something I had heard from the old man. I did not let on that I had recognized him, but I thought that I ought to get him a drink of water in any case.
Satan was at that time living in our glen. Well that was what my grandmother said, and although I did not believe in Santa, I had not a shadow of doubt about the other lad. And it was when the sun went down that this one woke up. As a result I was scared to death of the dark. And I was not alone. I would have to walk home with all the other boys, one after another, although my knees were knocking. (Satan was in every glen.) But not everyone had the same fear as me. Now I have to admit that I was a bit slow not notice at that time that Santa was an anagram of Satan - and more amazing still I have never heard any mention of it from a teacher. I did not listen much to that 'tribe' anyway. And I am not the better for it.
All the time that those thoughts were going through my mind, Santa was stretched out on the sofa crying out, ' Won't you bring me a mouthful of water.' Trying to make me think that he was from Lapland. [Perhaps by using 'uisge' for water whereas a native Lewisman would always use 'burn' for drinking water and 'uisge' only for rainwater*]. Now in the olden days the pails of water were stored in the 'closet' [a sort of enclosed larder in the coolest part of the house **]. The light of the Tilley lamp did not reach to the door of the 'closet'. (A hole from which Satan would not shift I am sure). But there are things that a boy has to do before he is a man. [duine - strictly a grown-up person].
I caught hold of the quart mug and I dived in to the darkness whistling and calling out ' I won't be long.' Although Satan is pretty clever, he would not catch me that night.
Fortunately, at the moment when I was close to the pails as I am to you just now, an owl let out a screech from the other end of the house and my heart nearly jumped out of my chest [cochall - the container or sheath - related to the English 'the cockles of your heart'?] My arm knocked against the nearest pail, I filled the mug and cleared out [thug (or thog) mo chasan orm - literally I took, or lifted, my feet on myself].
There was not much left in the quart mug when I reached Santa, but Satan had the upper hand. 'Dear God,' he said, ' aren't you the lad, finding thickened milk [natural yoghurt - made by leaving bowls of milk in the closet] in three minutes.'
'Aye, aye, sir,' I said, trying to make out again that I did not know who it was. But I was sure, if there was anything un-natural around, that it would understand English'.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
* Bha sin a' chiad mearachd a rinn mise na Gaidhlig a riamh. 'Oh,' thuirt mise air stairsnich taigh Leodhsaich - 'tha Gaidhlig agam - ahem: "tha mi ag iarraidh uisge".' Bha sinn nar campaich ag an am ud agus 's docha gur mo faclan a chuir iongadh air fear an taigh - seo neach-turais a bha ag iarraidh droch aimsir!
**http://5dalmore.blogspot.com/2008/03/milky-way-to-heavenly-delights.html
Monday, 8 February 2010
Aimsir Eachainn, Vol. 2, Friday 17 February 1989,
They say at times that the [true?] word was close to the lads of the South side. All the folk over there think that they are related to Ailean Sheonaidh. But the lads of the North side are not so slack. I happened to meet a young man connected to me in the Criterion a day or so back - the son of Murdinag Dhomhnaill Fhionnlaigh. 'Anything going on out your way?' He said. (He lives in Stornoway and he does not get out of the metropolis often) 'I haven't heard anything,' I said, trying to be clever. 'I don't believe that any of our people have died.' 'That's good,' he said, 'what with my suit away at the cleaners.' Just you wait a bit though...
Who should meet me then but 'Chuck', and naturally I understood than someone connected with me had died and from the kind of pleased look that he still had, it must have been quite a loss. If there was one other fella in Scotland to do the needful, he's the one. He was hard, he was quick, and he was strong, and he had a kick like a donkey, but his talent went down the urinal drain in The Higlanders. I won't say anything more.
I was not there when Mairead Ros came around the corner of Cromwell Street. She had a big wad of cash in her fist, asking would I make a film with her. There will not be much pay, she said, but plenty of expenses. We will go to the best possible place on the face of the earth and have a little bit of conversation on camera [ris - in fact is with the camera]. Well, sure, no bother. I said, what about the Seychelles? I'm afraid the budget would not stretch to the Equator, and so it turned out that we settled on Ranish.
I am going to show her [dhi - to her] the cliff on which my grandfather Prabag, who had the 'gift' [buisneachd - magic], would go rock fishing for codling on which we lived.
I was fairly young at the time, and my memories are fairly vague (meadhanach - middling) but the Geaman was telling me that Prabag would cross one foot over the other four times and spit five times before he cast his hook into the sea (sàl - seawater). I don't know whether I ought to show the magic well to Mairead (what with the pay being so poor), but what the hell I was getting a plug for the Novel. It's in the Sloc nam Marbh that the epic starts [Sloc nam Marbh - 'pit of the dead' - perhaps the saw-pit for making boat timbers which was traditionally haunted]. A wee lad, who has no idea who is his father. Ranish and the days of my youth have been on my mind recently and it worries me. I haven't the slightest notion of what I ate this morning but I remember what Bolaidh said to Iain Mhurchaidh on Tuesday evening in 1949. I've heard about these 'lucid moments' coming close to the end, and I would like to write [it all down] before the bell rings.
Kenny was telling me yesterday evening that his father, who remembers Prabag, appeared to him a short while ago. The old lad only has black-and-white and he does not see much colour. Who should appear but M. Thatcher in a black dress. 'O, God!, 'he said, 'when was it that her husband died?'.
Who should meet me then but 'Chuck', and naturally I understood than someone connected with me had died and from the kind of pleased look that he still had, it must have been quite a loss. If there was one other fella in Scotland to do the needful, he's the one. He was hard, he was quick, and he was strong, and he had a kick like a donkey, but his talent went down the urinal drain in The Higlanders. I won't say anything more.
I was not there when Mairead Ros came around the corner of Cromwell Street. She had a big wad of cash in her fist, asking would I make a film with her. There will not be much pay, she said, but plenty of expenses. We will go to the best possible place on the face of the earth and have a little bit of conversation on camera [ris - in fact is with the camera]. Well, sure, no bother. I said, what about the Seychelles? I'm afraid the budget would not stretch to the Equator, and so it turned out that we settled on Ranish.
I am going to show her [dhi - to her] the cliff on which my grandfather Prabag, who had the 'gift' [buisneachd - magic], would go rock fishing for codling on which we lived.
I was fairly young at the time, and my memories are fairly vague (meadhanach - middling) but the Geaman was telling me that Prabag would cross one foot over the other four times and spit five times before he cast his hook into the sea (sàl - seawater). I don't know whether I ought to show the magic well to Mairead (what with the pay being so poor), but what the hell I was getting a plug for the Novel. It's in the Sloc nam Marbh that the epic starts [Sloc nam Marbh - 'pit of the dead' - perhaps the saw-pit for making boat timbers which was traditionally haunted]. A wee lad, who has no idea who is his father. Ranish and the days of my youth have been on my mind recently and it worries me. I haven't the slightest notion of what I ate this morning but I remember what Bolaidh said to Iain Mhurchaidh on Tuesday evening in 1949. I've heard about these 'lucid moments' coming close to the end, and I would like to write [it all down] before the bell rings.
Kenny was telling me yesterday evening that his father, who remembers Prabag, appeared to him a short while ago. The old lad only has black-and-white and he does not see much colour. Who should appear but M. Thatcher in a black dress. 'O, God!, 'he said, 'when was it that her husband died?'.
Aimsir Eachainn - an darna part - cho domhainn 's a ghabhas.
Hot off the presses at Birlinn. More views from North Lochs. Aimsir Eachainn. Volume two. Eachann's column has evolved here into a slightly different format which does not follow the diary-like format. This makes for some longer sections of Gaelic. I will have to continue to try for a more-or-less word for word translation - mainly, I have to admit, because I am myself am pretty ignorant of the full idiomatic meaning of Hector's Gaelic.
The other day I was listening to Radio nan Gael's 'Leugh an Leabhar' programme where the writer John Murray was speaking with Mark Wringe about Hector's writing. Here is a bit of what he said:
'Saoilidh mise gu bheil e air a' dheanamh ann an doigh a tha air leth sgilear, a tha tarraingeach do luchd na Beurla agus luchd na Gaidhlig, agus dhaibh-san gu h-araid aig a bheil a' Gaidhlig agus aig a bheil tuigse air a' Gaidhlig laitheil ann an coimhearsneachd Gaidhealach far a bheil ciallach eadar-dhealaichte, fius bhon a' Gaidhlig offiocal ma gum biodh, aig comhradh a tha a' ruith a measg an t-sluaigh. Agus bha comhradh laitheil na Gaidhlige aig Eachainn cho domhainn 's a ghabhas sin a bhith.'
Turning this into English:
I think that it [his writing] was done in a way that was very skilful - that was attractive to English speakers and Gaelic speakers and especially to those who, not only speak Gaelic, but who also understand the colloquial Gaelic in the Highlands and Island communities where there is a different meaning - even from the 'official' Gaelic as it were - in the conversation that runs back-and-forth among folk. And I think that Hector's colloquial Gaelic was as deep as that could be.
The other day I was listening to Radio nan Gael's 'Leugh an Leabhar' programme where the writer John Murray was speaking with Mark Wringe about Hector's writing. Here is a bit of what he said:
'Saoilidh mise gu bheil e air a' dheanamh ann an doigh a tha air leth sgilear, a tha tarraingeach do luchd na Beurla agus luchd na Gaidhlig, agus dhaibh-san gu h-araid aig a bheil a' Gaidhlig agus aig a bheil tuigse air a' Gaidhlig laitheil ann an coimhearsneachd Gaidhealach far a bheil ciallach eadar-dhealaichte, fius bhon a' Gaidhlig offiocal ma gum biodh, aig comhradh a tha a' ruith a measg an t-sluaigh. Agus bha comhradh laitheil na Gaidhlige aig Eachainn cho domhainn 's a ghabhas sin a bhith.'
Turning this into English:
I think that it [his writing] was done in a way that was very skilful - that was attractive to English speakers and Gaelic speakers and especially to those who, not only speak Gaelic, but who also understand the colloquial Gaelic in the Highlands and Island communities where there is a different meaning - even from the 'official' Gaelic as it were - in the conversation that runs back-and-forth among folk. And I think that Hector's colloquial Gaelic was as deep as that could be.
Saturday, 23 January 2010
Aimsir Eachainn, 26th June 1987
Nach do mhoithich sibh s' docha gur nas ainneaimhe is nas ainneaimhe a tha a' Ghaidhlig anns an colbh aig Eachann? Don't you notice perhaps that Gaelic is less and less frequent in Hector's column as published?
Mar a thuirt Eachann e-fhein. As Eachann himself says:
Saturday
... there is no Gaelic Art as such, since I stopped doing Friday in Gaelic....
Abair e!
Mar a thuirt Eachann e-fhein. As Eachann himself says:
Saturday
... there is no Gaelic Art as such, since I stopped doing Friday in Gaelic....
Abair e!
Tuesday, 19 January 2010
Ars' Eachann
... the word Arsa or shortened to Ars' is an old word for said. You will find it throughout Eachann's writing even in English. It is almost exactly like 'quoth' in English and adds a literary tone to writing. The subject of the verb 'arsa' almost always gets a emphatic ending. So Ars' esan where esan is the pronoun 'e' (he) with the '-san' added for emphasis. Likewise Ars' mise - with mi (me) extended to mise for emphasis.
Friday, 15 January 2010
Aimsir Eachainn, 19 April 1985
Thursday
I don't think anymore that I will get away. I can hardly believe that those words came from Findlay last week. Satan must have blinded the poor lad. If I get my feet out of the quagmire here one time more, I will never return. There is something un-natural about this island - as if it was that the people are half-running towards death, frightened completely out of their lives .
I don't think anymore that I will get away. I can hardly believe that those words came from Findlay last week. Satan must have blinded the poor lad. If I get my feet out of the quagmire here one time more, I will never return. There is something un-natural about this island - as if it was that the people are half-running towards death, frightened completely out of their lives .
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