Bhí scamaill móra dubha ag dul treasna na speire
Not being an aficionado of the Gaelic tongue, a girl needed one sentence to get her through meánscoil; an ‘added value’ class of a sentence. I first met ‘Bhí scamaill móra dubha ag dul treasna na spéire’ in bunscoil; just in time as it happens – at the very end of rang a sé. Besides ‘Níl fhis agam’ and ‘An bhuil cead agam dul amach?’ I only had some random foclaí that would never form a sentence. But, Bhí scamaill móra dubha ag dul treasna na spéire, that’s the kind of thing I could flaunt in the company of foreigners, along with ‘In ainim an áthair agus an mhic, Baidín Fheilimi and ‘A shaighdiúirí mo chroí will you marry marry me.’ If mo chairde had a few different phrases like ‘dun an doras’, ‘tá ocras orm’ and Eirí amach na cásca’ we could sound quite the Gaeilgeoiri.
What, with a splattering of ‘conas ata tú’s’ and a soupcon of ‘cabáiste’, prátaí’ agus cáca milis,’ we could put on cuilche accents and cut a dash as a pair of natives. If we ran out of steam, we could alternate between recitations of Eamon on Cnoic and Ag Chroist and tsoil. If we were under threat of being discovered, we could break into ‘Ár n-athair atá ar néamh’ or a haon, a do, a trí, which reminds me, I always had a problem after a deich. As I went into my oral Irish for an scrúdú na hArdteistiméireachta clutching my copy of Peig Sayers I felt like I was entering the stonebreakers yard in Kilmainham Gaol. My hopes and dreams depended on passing an Ghaelige so that I could study an Béarla in UCD. But did I need to pass an Bearla to study an Ghaelige? Apparently not. I was comh crancadh le mála éasóg.
The examiner asked me to open leathanach troice-seacht and I looked at her like a startled coinín caught in the headlights of a gluaistain. “Page thirty-seven,” she said helpfully. Buichas le Dhia then, I could count past ten as Bearla. So, nuair a bhí mé ag léamh another miserable chapter from the life of some random aul one on a rock in the Atlantic, the examiner clicked her peann lui a lot. This Peig had way too much bad karma; why was An Rionn Oideachas laying all this on us Dublin teenagers? Ar chaoi ar bith, I stumbled on. Not suffering from the sin of pride I knew that I sounded like the talking madra on the TV show, That’s Life; the madra who could say sausages; or should I say ispini?
But, to return to Bhí scamaill móra dubha ag dul treasna na spéire, that perfectly formed sentence appeared in every essay I ever wrote all the way through meánscoil. Blackberry picking - Bhí scamaill móra dubha ag dul treasna na spéire – my summer holidays - Bhí scamaill móra dubha … a day at the seaside - Bhí scamaill móra…. Lucky for me then, that Ireland didn’t have the same aimsir as an Aifric.
Look, a daoine usile, I was a lost cause when it came to an Ghaelige, but it always helped to create pictuiruí in mo cheann. I thought the modh chonailach were a tribe like the Tuatha de danan. I imagined them as cross little wiry men marching out of the west. I thought Rothair more an tsaoil was some post-modern Flann O’Brienesque tale about the adventures of a big bicycle. Or what about that little red-haired, freckled boy wearing a geansaí in the second last line of Amhrán na bhFiann? You know who I mean; his name is Seany Conny.
But the war was not yet over. I had to endure the indignity of yet another Irish oral before I would be allowed teach an Béarla in a secondary school. After a four-year sabbatical from the lingo all I remembered was anseo. This time, the heavies were coming from An Rionn Oideachas. What was a cailín to do? I learnt the killer sentence, “Nil mo Ghaelige an-mhaith. Ba mhaith liom a bheith muinteoir Béarla.” I decided to say it in my strongest Dublin accent – I wanted to sound marginalised and evoke pity from the examiner. I also wore my gúna deas. It worked. He let me see him write pás in big letters on the form. Even I did not need that to be translated. I was was ar mhuin na muice.
Not being an aficionado of the Gaelic tongue, a girl needed one sentence to get her through meánscoil; an ‘added value’ class of a sentence. I first met ‘Bhí scamaill móra dubha ag dul treasna na spéire’ in bunscoil; just in time as it happens – at the very end of rang a sé. Besides ‘Níl fhis agam’ and ‘An bhuil cead agam dul amach?’ I only had some random foclaí that would never form a sentence. But, Bhí scamaill móra dubha ag dul treasna na spéire, that’s the kind of thing I could flaunt in the company of foreigners, along with ‘In ainim an áthair agus an mhic, Baidín Fheilimi and ‘A shaighdiúirí mo chroí will you marry marry me.’ If mo chairde had a few different phrases like ‘dun an doras’, ‘tá ocras orm’ and Eirí amach na cásca’ we could sound quite the Gaeilgeoiri.
What, with a splattering of ‘conas ata tú’s’ and a soupcon of ‘cabáiste’, prátaí’ agus cáca milis,’ we could put on cuilche accents and cut a dash as a pair of natives. If we ran out of steam, we could alternate between recitations of Eamon on Cnoic and Ag Chroist and tsoil. If we were under threat of being discovered, we could break into ‘Ár n-athair atá ar néamh’ or a haon, a do, a trí, which reminds me, I always had a problem after a deich. As I went into my oral Irish for an scrúdú na hArdteistiméireachta clutching my copy of Peig Sayers I felt like I was entering the stonebreakers yard in Kilmainham Gaol. My hopes and dreams depended on passing an Ghaelige so that I could study an Béarla in UCD. But did I need to pass an Bearla to study an Ghaelige? Apparently not. I was comh crancadh le mála éasóg.
The examiner asked me to open leathanach troice-seacht and I looked at her like a startled coinín caught in the headlights of a gluaistain. “Page thirty-seven,” she said helpfully. Buichas le Dhia then, I could count past ten as Bearla. So, nuair a bhí mé ag léamh another miserable chapter from the life of some random aul one on a rock in the Atlantic, the examiner clicked her peann lui a lot. This Peig had way too much bad karma; why was An Rionn Oideachas laying all this on us Dublin teenagers? Ar chaoi ar bith, I stumbled on. Not suffering from the sin of pride I knew that I sounded like the talking madra on the TV show, That’s Life; the madra who could say sausages; or should I say ispini?
But, to return to Bhí scamaill móra dubha ag dul treasna na spéire, that perfectly formed sentence appeared in every essay I ever wrote all the way through meánscoil. Blackberry picking - Bhí scamaill móra dubha ag dul treasna na spéire – my summer holidays - Bhí scamaill móra dubha … a day at the seaside - Bhí scamaill móra…. Lucky for me then, that Ireland didn’t have the same aimsir as an Aifric.
Look, a daoine usile, I was a lost cause when it came to an Ghaelige, but it always helped to create pictuiruí in mo cheann. I thought the modh chonailach were a tribe like the Tuatha de danan. I imagined them as cross little wiry men marching out of the west. I thought Rothair more an tsaoil was some post-modern Flann O’Brienesque tale about the adventures of a big bicycle. Or what about that little red-haired, freckled boy wearing a geansaí in the second last line of Amhrán na bhFiann? You know who I mean; his name is Seany Conny.
But the war was not yet over. I had to endure the indignity of yet another Irish oral before I would be allowed teach an Béarla in a secondary school. After a four-year sabbatical from the lingo all I remembered was anseo. This time, the heavies were coming from An Rionn Oideachas. What was a cailín to do? I learnt the killer sentence, “Nil mo Ghaelige an-mhaith. Ba mhaith liom a bheith muinteoir Béarla.” I decided to say it in my strongest Dublin accent – I wanted to sound marginalised and evoke pity from the examiner. I also wore my gúna deas. It worked. He let me see him write pás in big letters on the form. Even I did not need that to be translated. I was was ar mhuin na muice.
