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An Ghaeilge sa Leabhar _Galway Bay_: “Guilpín,” “Grá” agus Go Leor Eile

Posted by Róislín

Nov

2009

Oíche Fhéile Eoin, an 23ú lá de Mhí an Mheithimh, 1839, i mBearna, Co. na Gaillimhe. We’ve been talking quite a bit lately about Samhain, but now we’ll jump 2.5 seasons forward, and discuss some of the Irish phrases used in the highly praised novel, Galway Bay, by Mary Pat Kelly. The author is currently on tour sna Stáit Aontaithe and might be coming go dtí do cheantar féin (to your area, if it’s PA, CT, or CO).

The opening setting of the book is as described above, St. John’s Night, June 23^rd, 1839, in the fishing village of Barna, just west of Galway. Many of the characters are based on the author’s own ancestors and would have been Irish speakers. Although the novel is written i mBéarla, Irish phrases are sprinkled ar fud an leabhair, giving local flavor and some extra incentive to foghlaimeoirí na teanga.

While many úrscéalta stairiúla adopt this literary style, most don’t carry it through to the extent that Kelly does. The gluais at the end of the book could easily be twice as long if Kelly had glossed all the examples of Irish in the book. She says it’s intended to be “helpful, not definitive,” so it doesn’t include absolutely every occurrence of Irish. The glossary stands at trí leathanach, and unlike many glossaries, includes fuaimnithe (pronunciations). That’s three pages without getting into the meanings of family and place names, which are sometimes examined in the course of the novel, and which could easily triple méid na gluaise. I’m not going to vouch for all the spellings, but the flavor and background is certainly there. Some are Gaeilge go hiomlán, some are galldaithe (anglicized), and some are idir eatarthu. Which more or less reflects the situation of two languages in contact.

Seo cúpla sampla:

guilpín, a lout (GYIL-peen). I wouldn’t really advise calling anyone a guilpín, but if you do, remember that in direct address, the word gets lenited, just like proper names, with “h” added after the first consonant. So it becomes, “a ghuilpín,” and is pronounced with the voiced velar fricative, i.e. deep in the throat, not the regular “g.”

On the more affectionate side, we have a range of terms of endearment, such as “a ghrá” (love), also pronounced with the voiced velar fricative, “a ghrá mo chroí,” (love of my heart), which has both the voiced (gh) and the voiceless velar fricative (ch), and the far simpler (pronunciation-wise) “a rún” (dear). For that, you just need the Irish flapped “r,” like the very beginning of a trill, but cut short. You might also recognize an Irish term of endearment that has actually become popular lately as a girl’s name, alanna, from leanbh ([LYAN-uv, note it’s two syllables] child). These phrases are, of course, all in direct address, which accounts for the particle “a” at the beginning of each phrase. In the case of “alanna,” it’s “ionsuite” (built-in).

Some place name elements are also explained, like tobar (well), ráth (ring fort), and ard (a height, high place). We also get some terms for buttercups, honeysuckle, and St. Dabeoc’s heath, but I’ll let you discover those for yourself!

As for St. John’s Night, aka Bonfire Night, this coincides closely to Midsummer according to the Celtic calendar, where an samhradh started on Lá Bealtaine (May 1). So it’s surely not by chance that Kelly’s novel starts at this time of year, imbuing every action with embedded meaning for the future. The protagonist (and the actual sinsinseanmháthair of Kelly herself) is Honora Kelly, and suffice it to say here that the events of that St. John’s dawn determine the question of an clochar vs. an saol pósta. Not deliberate divination, as might have occurred on Oíche Shamhna, but nevertheless, we basically have the appearance of a strainséir ard dubh, and the fact that his first appearance is in his “culaith lá breithe” (to semi-coin a phrase), no doubt keeps the reader “gafa” (engaged).

Remaining tour events are in Villanova, PA (Nov. 3), Fairfield, CT (Nov. 7), and Ft. Collins, CO (Nov 22) and details are available at www.MaryPatKelly.com

Fuaimnithe: fhéile [AYL-yeh, silent “f”], mhí an Mheithimh [vee un VEH-hiv, note 3 silent m’s]; go dtí [guh djee]; leathanach [LYA-hun-ukh]; sinsinseanmháthair [shin-shin-shan-WAW-hirzh],

samhradh [sow-ruh or sow-roo, with the “sow” like American “cow” or “now”]. Again, I’m bailing out for pronunciation based on na gutaí Albanacha, or even some of the gutaí Briotanacha, at least for now. Soon I’ll need a pronunciation guide for the pronunciation guide! The IPA for this sound is /au/, if that helps.

Posted under Irish Language
Tagged with Barna, Bearna, bonefire, bonfire, Bonfire Night, Fairfield, Féile Eoin, Ft. Collins, Galway, Galway Bay, gluais, historical novel, Honora Kelly, Mary Pat Kelly, Midsummer, novel, Oíche Fhéile Eoin, Villanova

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Karros, Carrus, and Today’s “Carr”

Posted by Róislín

Apr

2009

You might have noticed “carr” as a recent Word of the Day at www.transparent.com. It could be easy to assume that this is a recent borrowing from English, dating to the era of, well, motor-cars. Ach a mhalairt, mo chara! (but the opposite, my friend).

The word “carr” was in use in Irish long before motor-cars hit the scene. It originally meant what we would call a “cart” today, and could also mean a “dray” (now specifically a “drae” in Irish) or a “wagon” (which is now usually “féan” or “vaigín, the latter being “wagon,” Gaelicized. OK, UK – “waggon” in your spelling!).

“Carr” is rarely used in Irish anymore for an actual cart; that is usually “cairrín” (as in cairrín gailf) or “cairt.” It is sometimes used for a cart, though, in archeological references. “Carr” also remains in some terminology for various non-motor vehicles, such as the “carr sleamhnáin” (a slide-car traditionally used in agriculture, which actually had no wheels, and more recently, a sledge or sled) and the “carr cliathánach” (jaunting- or side-car), famous around Killarney and in the film The Quiet Man.

A “shopping-cart” in Irish, however, doesn’t use the word “cart,” but rather “trolley,” as in “tralaí siopadóireachta.” “Trolley” is typically used for hand-pushed carts in both Irish and UK English. What Americans typically call a “trolley” (“Clang! Clang! Clang! Went the Trolley,” etc.) would likely be a “trolley bus” (bus tralaí) or a “tram,” the latter being exactly the same (tram) in Irish. “Clang! Clang! Clang! Went the Tram” somehow just doesn’t cut it though – good thing that story was set in St. Louis!

All of these “carr”-related words are connected to Gaulish “karros,” which the Romans “borrowed” as “carrus,” and so have a venerable history.

There are a couple of terms for “car” in Irish that do not stem from the “karros” root:

Gluaisteán: car, very literally, a moving-thing, from “gluais” (movement). Although I used to hear and see this word more when I first got involved in Irish, its use seems to be on the decline.

Mótar: as a word for “car,” also declining in use; it remains strong as the basic word for a motor.

As for slang terms for “car” in Irish, there doesn’t seem to be an abundance, probably due to their relative scarcity in early 20^th-century Ireland compared to America. For any fans out there of Nancy Drew and her 1930s “roadster,” don’t be misled by the fact that the word “roadster” does show up in English-Irish dictionaries. The definitions offered for “roadster” don’t mean any type of car at all. Some Irish equivalents for “roadster” are “long ar ród” (a ship in a roadstead, a roadstead being a body of water!) and “bád róid” (a roadstead boat). The other is “ródaí,” a person who roves the roads. “Ródaí” has recently been adapted to mean a traveling broadcasting vehicle, so is a sort of “roadster,” but not in the original sense.

And for even earlier American slang, “flivver” or “jalopy,” sorry, folks, you’re on your own for that one! Slang rarely correlates from language to language. – Bhur mblagálaí - Róislín