Gleann Cholm Cille

By Simon

I returned to Bangor from the Isle of Man yesterday after a very enjoyable week at Yn Chruinnaght. I spoke and sang lots of Manx, and heard all the other Celtic languages, except Breton, being spoken and/or sung. I also spoke a bit of French and German, and even some English.

I was even inspired to write a new song while I was there, which is even sillier than my previous efforts.

Today I arrived in Gleann Cholm Cille for the Summer School in Irish language and Culture at Oideas Gael, so am now switching to Irish mode. During the week I’m here blog posts, up-dates on Omniglot and replies to emails might become somewhat sporadic.

It’s blowing a hoolie

By Simon

Yesterday I spotted the interesting expression ‘it’s blowing a hoolie‘ on a friend’s facebook page. From the context I guessed it meant that it was very windy.

According to A Way with Words, to blow a hoolie means ‘(of weather) to storm; to forcefully gust, blow, and rain.’ It is perhaps connected to hooley, which is defined by Cassell’s Dictionary of Slang as “a rip-roaring party” and comes from Ireland.

The OED suggests that hoolie /hu(:)li/ comes from the Orkney Scots word hoolan (strong gale), from an unattested Norn form of the Old Icelandic ýlun (howling, wailing).

Have you come accross this expression before, or do you use it? Do you have any other expressions for describing windy, stormy weather?

Chaos

By Simon

I came up with this song this week while contemplating the phrase ‘my hovercraft is full of eels‘, as you do, and thinking what other things might be filled with animals. That phrase doesn’t feature in the song, but there are plenty of other similarly useful phrases in it.

The tune came to me as I was writing it, and I later discovered that it was similar to the tune to the song ‘Give me the bus fare to Laxey‘, which I heard for the first time on Sunday in Ramsey, and probably to other songs. I wrote quite a bit of if while in Laxey and waiting for a bus to Ramsey.

The song is about those who cause chaos wherever they go. I haven’t identified any particular people, but you probably know one or two like that, or maybe you’re one of them.

Chaos
The attic is overflowing with aardvarks
The bath is brimful of baboons
The curtains are covered in custard
And mustard drips from all the spoons

The table is teaming with turnips
And the potatoes are eyeing the peas
The cushions are crammed with creamcrackers
And the cat’s eaten all of the cheese.

There are dogs playing poker in the pantry
And smoking fine Cuban cigars
As soon as they run out of money
They’ll be racing around in toy cars

The sink is swimming with penguins
And the fridge is flowing with fudge
There are ferrets fooling round in the cellar
And the carpets have all turned to sludge

I should have learnt my lesson
I should never have left them alone
I only popped out for ten minutes
And look what they’ve done to my home

Wherever they’ve been there is chaos
And wherever they are there is more
I only popped out for ten minutes
And now I can’t get through the door.

Here’s a recording:

When I’ve worked out the chords, I’ll record it with accompaniment.

What should I call you?

By Simon

Does it bother you if someone you’ve never met before addresses you in a familiar way? For example, if they use your first name, rather than Mr/Mrs/Ms or other title plus your surname.

Some of my friends object strongly to being addressed by their first name by their bank manager, for example, or to receiving emails or letters from strangers which start Hi [first name], rather than Dear Mr/Mrs/Ms [surname].

It doesn’t bother me in the slightest if strangers call me Simon rather than Mr Ager. In fact I prefer informality to formality any day. However I do tend to correct mispronunciations of my surname.

When I reply to emails I tend to take my lead from how to sender has addressed me. If they start with ‘Dear Mr Ager’, then I’ll use the same formular to reply. Some even award me other titles, such as professor or Dr, which I have no claim to. If they start with ‘Hi Simon’, then I’ll reply in a similar way. Some start with ‘To whom it may concern’ or ‘To the webmaster’, which is just lazy – it’s not as if my name is hidden away.

When talking to people face to face I tend not to use their names at all, unless there are several people and I want to get a particular person’s attention. Sometimes this is because I don’t know or can’t quite remember their names, but usually it’s just a habit.

Inspired by a post on Linguism.

Sonic the happy Manx hedgehog

By Simon

Arkan sonney (hedgehog)

Arkan sonney is a Manx expression I came across today that means hedgehog, or literally “happy sucking pig”. Arkan is a diminutive form of ark (piglet), and sonney means ‘affluent, lucky, fortunate, happy’, and sounds a bit like sonic, hence the little of this post.

Another Manx word for hedgehog is graynoge, which is related to the Irish and Scottish Gaelic words for hedgehog: gráinneog and gràineag. The root of these words is gráin (abhorrence, disgust), so they mean ‘the abhorrent/disgusting one’. The Welsh word for hedgehog, draenog, possibly comes from the same root.

According to Wikipedia, arkan sonney, means literally ‘lucky urchin’ or ‘plentiful pig’, and in Manx folklore it refers to a type of supernatural creature that looks like a long-haired pig. It was said that if you caught an arkan sonney or ‘lucky piggie’, which tend to run away from people, you’ll be lucky and will find a silver piece in your pocket.

Sources: On-line Manx Dictionary, Irish Dictionary Online and MacBain Dictionary

Yn Chruinnaght

By Simon

Tomorrow I’m off to the Isle of Man for Yn Chruinnaght (‘the gathering’) – a celebration of Manx and Celtic music and culture featuring performers and participants from the Isle of Man, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, Cornwall and Brittany. I’m really looking forward to it as it’s a great opportunity to see old friends and make new ones, and to hear, speak and/or sing in quite a few different languages – last year at Yn Chruinnaght I heard all six modern Celtic languages being spoken and sung, and spoke in four of them, and also in French and English.

I’ll be in the Isle of Man for a week, then I’m off to Gleann Cholm Cille in Donegal in Ireland for a summer school in Irish language and culture.

Les mots de la semaine

By Simon

– faire une entrée (remarquée) = to make a (big) entrance = gwneud mynedfa (fawr)
– à feuilles persistantes = evergreen = bythwyrdd
– le moineau = sparrow = aderyn y to
– la mouette = seagull = gwylan
– la mésange bleue = blue tit = titw tomas las
– avoir un mouvement de recul / reculer = to cringe = ymgreinio
– ça me donne envie de rentrer sous terre = it makes me cringe (with embarrassment)
– ça me hérisse = it makes me cringe (with disgust)
– les cacahuètes = peanuts = cnau daear
– les petits oignons au vinaigre = pickled onions = nionod/winwns wedi’u piclo
– les oeufs marinés = pickled eggs = wyau wedi’u piclo

True sisters

By Simon

The word for sister in Irish is deirfiúr /dʲɾʲəˈfˠuːɾˠ/, and it has always puzzled me why this word is so different from the words for sister in the other Gaelic languages: piuthar /pju.ər/ in Scottish Gaelic and shuyr /ʃuːr/ in Manx.

Yesterday I discovered that deirfiúr is in fact a combination of deirbh /dʲɾʲəv/ (true) and siúr /ʃuːɾˠ/ (sister). The word siúr originally meant sister in Old Irish, but came to mean kinswoman. To distinguish sisters from other female relations, deirb (true) was added to it, so the Old Irish word for sister was derbṡiur, which eventually became the Modern Irish deirfiúr – the s at the beginning of siur became f after mo (my), do (your) and a (his), and this mutation became fixed.

In Scottish Gaelic the word for sister came from Old Irish as fiur, which became piur and eventually piuthar.

The Old Irish word siur (sister) comes from the Proto-Celtic *swesūr, from the Proto-Indo-European *swésōr, which is the root for the word for sister in many European languages.

The Irish word for brother, deartháir /dʲɾʲəˈhaːɾʲ/, has a similar history: it is a combination of deirbh (true) and bráthair (brother) and used to be written dearbh-bhráthair or dearbhráthair. It comes from the Old Irish derbráthair, from the Proto-Celtic *brātīr, from the Proto-Indo-European *bʰréh₂tēr. In Modern Irish bráthair means brother as in a male member of a religious community or monk. In Old Irish it meant brother, kinsman or cousin.

Sources: Blas na Gàidhlig: The Practical Guide to Scottish Gaelic Pronunciation, by Michael Bauer
and Wiktionary

Press

By Simon

One word for cupboard used mainly in Hiberno and Scottish English is press. When I encountered it in one of my Irish courses as a translation of the Irish word prios it puzzled me somewhat as I’d never come across this word used to mean cupboard before. Today I spotted the term linen press in a book I’m reading and thought I’d find out more about this word.

According to the OED, a press is a large cupboard, usually with shelves, especially one that lives in a wall recess, and is used to store such things as linen, clothes, books, crockery and other kitchen item. It is sometimes referred to as a clothes-press or linen-press. It comes from the French word presse, which originally referred to a crowd or crush in battle, and by the 14th century also meant a clothes cupboard.

Do you call cupboards presses, or have you heard anybody doing so?