I recently had the pleasure of having this story broadcast on Scariff Bay Radio. I wrote it for the A Flow of Words programme.

Both sets of my grandparents hailed from East Clare, Magherabawn, Feakle and Caher Rice, Killanena. They were of their times. I don't know if they would have claimed to be Irish speakers, but they used the language as part of their everyday life and made no particular distinction as the whether it was Irish or English. The words were used because they described the work and utensils they were using. I have seen it expressed as, "They spoke English that was woven on a Gaelic loom". I believe the author was Con Houlihan and it was a lovely way to describe how the people of that time spoke.

Cúpla Focal

by Marianne Purcell

My Grandparents spoke Irish. Not the stylized Irish of the scholar, not the “blas” of the Gaeltacht but an everyday, living Irish that was as natural to them as breathing. An innate, spoken language that was an intrinsic part of their everyday life. A language that reflected the household tasks, and the seasons of a people in close proximity with their environment. The words and phrases meant exactly what they were used for.

We never had to learn this language because it was a part of the waft and weave of any time spent with Granny and Grandad. The daily chores sparkled with words that at the time needed no explanation. Any trip down the “haggard,” the small garden in front of the house, would see Granny returning with a “gawall, ” an arm-full, of “kippins”, thin, light sticks which were added to the “ciaráns” small or broken pieces of turf in the “ciseán” the basket beside the hearth where kindling was kept. Both the kippins and ciaráns were invaluable for lighting the “griseach”, the red hot coals preserved in the ashes after the fire was raked and the nucleus of the next day’s fire. Invaluable before fire-lighters were invented.

We learned to scatter a “laire’, a two-handed scoop, of oats for the hens. We gathered the eggs taking special care with any “boggάin”, the soft shelled ones. We recited with Granny as she mixed the mash for the pigs, in an old battered, “muckle”, a saucepan that had seen better days, “nettles and thistles, glauráns and Spring water”. Glauráns are common Hogweed, used to supplement feedstuff during the late Spring. Before giant Hogweed gave it a bad name.

We would trail after Grandad when he delivered the big “beart”, a large bundle of hay held together with a rope, to the cows. We vied with each other to see who could find him the best “tráinín” a stiff stem of grass when he needed a “reateóir” for his pipe. I’m not sure exactly what a “reiteóir” was but Grandad used the “tráinín” to unblock the stem of his pipe.

Any excursions to “the cruachάin”, a high boggy wilderness where Grandad pastured cattle, was peppered with his wisdom. ‘Stick to the “tourtáins”’, tussocks of rushes, he would advise, warning us away from deceptively solid looking bogland. ‘Carry your weight on your shoulders when you’re crossing the “poullabhan”’, the white hole, a field where marl was excavated as a manure for the land leaving it a virtual marshland with the associated dangers.

Granny would pack thick slices of bread and butter whenever we were send to count the cattle on Ballycroum. This was to stave off the “féar ócras” the ”hungry grass”, which was reputed to make the unprepared traveller weak and disorientated. We were warned that when we left the “boreen” at the “cosantas” we were to stay on the known paths in case the “ strea” caused us to wander in circles on fairy paths until someone found us and released us from the spell. The “cosantas” was a field where a number of local farmers shared “collops”, an old Irish measurement designating the amount of grass allocated to a given number of cattle, sheep or geese.

Saving hay and cutting turf were farm tasks that had remained relatively unchanged for generations, prior to the advent of mechanization. As such they were steeped in the words and phrases of tradition. Who remembers throwing out the back “raheen”, the swarth of grass on the margins of a meadow that the slide-rake couldn’t reach. Or pulling the butts of the trams fraught as it was with the danger of inadvertently grabbing a thistle or nettle. It was nearly a given that one ended up with thorns or stings when pulling out the ”muireog”, the clump of hay to which the “sugάin” hay rope, was attached. Grandad always twisted his own sugάin. Finding the perfect “gillόg” a strong stick for twisting the sugάin was the first task. Then he’d grug down on one knee beside a heap of hay, ideally with a scattering of “luacra madra”, dog-rushes through it and one of the older, more experienced “gasoons” would twist while he fed the hay in small neat lengths to make the strongest rope you could imagine.

Going to the bog opened a world of words that succinctly described each step of preparing, cutting and drying the invaluable sods of turf. The preparation began with repairing the “ciseach”, a bridge of woven sally branches tamped down and firmed with “scrάs”, large clods of grass and clay. This bridge allowed access to the bog across a deep trench. Next the “slάn” a tool for cutting turf was taken from its oiled sacking, honed and the handle checked for wear. Grandad used a wing-slάn which was a digging implement. Then the task was to skin the bank, removing heather and other growth to expose the turf underneath. Every able bodied person was expected to take a turn in the bog. Footing the turf was back-breaking work as was building the “gruggάin”, a of stoop of six or so sods which became a “shougάin” when one got experienced enough to make a bigger pile. Finally a reek was built. Nearer the road, where the ass would wait patiently, or, more likely skittishly, to allow the “clieves” baskets slung either side of the straddle on his back, be filled. Thus to bring the turf home.

So it was, season by season. A “meitheal” of neighbours would gather to help with whatever work was going on. Us children playing our part, absorbing the music and cadence of words that are, nowadays, almost lost. Words accepted at the time but never fully appreciated. The old saying carries a lot of truth: “We never know the true value of a moment until it becomes a memory” .

Many thanks to Marianne Purcell from Feakle for permission to use this story for our Cúl an Tí project.

Táimid an-bhuíoch do Marianne Purcell as an scéal álainn seo a roinnt linn.