Michael McCaughan's "Coming Home": Book Review

Facing his mid-life crisis, Michael McCaughan explores his reunion with the Irish language he'd abandoned, along with most students in the 26 Counties during nearly the past hundred years. He begins his memoir as resigned as Ireland's majority: 'We have acquired a prayer, permission to go to the bathroom and an empty slogan.' (13) Sé do bheatha a Mhuire, an bhfuil cead agam dul amach go dtí an leithreas and tiochfaidh ár lá. Throughout his career as a Spanish translator abroad, he'd regale Latin Americans who'd begged him to "say something in Irish" with a hodgepodge recited from rote.

Coming Home is a generic phrase itself. The book's subtitle: 'one man's return to the Irish language', situates him within a small shelf of similar stories, some cited, others not. Lonely Planet co-founder Brian Fallon left Boston on the same quest, a bit fictionalised as Home With Alice (2002). The fact this was published only in Australia may reflect the presumed limited appeal of this trope. That same year, Darerca Ní Chartúir in her overview-guide to the language appended testimonies from four Americans attending summer schools in Gaeltachtaí. Two years on, Ciarán MacMurchaidh edited 'Who Needs Irish?' A few learners answered why in the affirmative alongside acclaim by natives. and from a schooled minority who embraced the speech that McCaughan and many of his peers spurned.

I contributed to the 2007 issue of Estudios Irlandeses an examination of 'Making the Case for Irish Through English: Eco-critical Politics of Language by Learners' emphasising the perceived benefit of learning Irish in its natural setting. Brian Ó Conchubhair summed up in A New View of the Irish Language his 2008 chapter on 'The Global Diaspora and the "New" Irish (Language)'. He charted a 'hyper-Gaeltacht' (238) as Gaeilge entered its 'transnational' phase, sustained rather than attenuated by a combination of recent emigrants and the descendants of such, joined by other ethnicities connecting via Irish. Added to this in the decade since would be social media, video chat, and instant messaging.

Ó Conchubhair considers 'Hanson's law of third-generation return' first propounded in 1938: 'what the immigrant's son wishes to forget, the immigrant's grandson wishes to remember'. (New View 245) McCaughan, as one who has lived far from Ireland for much of his five decades, wonders why he took his Spanish from basics to fluency, while Irish languished. He puzzles over his surname and the silence from his Co Antrim-born father, who never revealed his side regarding sectarian origins, and the tug that pulls this son back. Dwelling in the Burren circa 2014, he takes advantage of Raidió na Gaeltachta online in caring for the 'fever' which inexplicably had consumed him to tackle, this time almost from scratch, another tongue. Union with this common resource unlocking centuries of lore past and present motivates his quest, rather than nationalism, Leaving Cert scores, or atavistic pride.

One wonders: within a multilingual Irish society, why Gaeilge shares craic in many a high street less often than, say, Polish? True, the exceptions of the immigrant, young or mature, who masters Irish gain publicity. But as one Irish wag mused, few of America's new arrivals hastened to study Cherokee or Seminole. If casual Irish does enter conversations, it's more likely within a congenial pub rather than a stern shop, (This is the reviewer's query; a minor flaw of this book is its too passing a coverage of this persistent social shame. Next to a continent where many citizens may communicate between four languages easily, the default refusal of most Irish to choose their native option continues to vex not only McCaughan and those he interviews and quotes. Compulsory lessons can't bear all the customary blame. And while a short glossary of Gaeilge terms and a brief list of sources consulted appear, the lack of an index thwarts recall of names, places and materials within this data-rich text.)

McCaughan wants to link in. Like learners can on the Net in the 'hyper-Gaeltacht', he keeps the radio on, plunging into 'the deep end' rather than rely on the English subtitles for TG4. Not far from the remnants of coastal districts where everyday Irish has been spoken, he considers the trauma of An Gorta Mór and the trace elements of guilt which weakened survivors. Remorse generated either a 'fierce, aggressive' attachment or rejection of the language, (22) He alludes to Animal Farm for the post-1922 'language bosses' who held on to their version of the tally stick, an bata scóir, emulating their hated English masters in beating on miscreants who lapsed into a forbidden but habitual tongue.

Either language was replaced with deliberate effort. McCaughan reasons that if Irish 'disappeared out of our families one word at a time', its erosion may be reversed by phrases enriching conversation. This as with much of the content assumes an Irish audience. Gill Books markets this to them, from the author's own birthplace of south Dublin. McCaughan therefore shares hints, resources, and strategies for those with the benefits of an Ireland residence to 'put on a second coat we've grown used to' (adapting composer Peadar Ó Riada's metaphor). McCaughan regards Irish as a 'second skin,' or even as what lingers in the 'marrow'. (64; readers may want to look up Peadar's father Seán's story.)

Exemplars such as Peadar, travel writer Manchán Magan, comedian Des Bishop, poets Paul Durcan, Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill, and Michael Hartnett encourage him to distinguish his mother tongue, an Béarla, from his native one, an Ghaeilge. The fate of Hartnett, who tried to revert to Irish-only for his work, sobers him. McCaughan realises that the call to the mystic within will fall on many deaf ears around him, but he dismisses any practicality. As Spanish enraptured him as a teen, so now does Irish, at last. As well as tips for learners, this book's added value shows in the language policies from the Americas McCaughan uses to integrate his critique of the Dublin governments' hapless schemes.

Echoing Magan's Hartnett-like 'No Béarla' TG4 attempts in 2007 to conduct affairs in Ireland's 'first official language', the author tries to buy via Irish a ticket from Doolin to Inis Mór. He's told; 'you know, your Irish is very hard to understand.' Galwegians scold that he has 'no dialect'. Within the heartland, he considers a Buddhist analogue. Right Speech renders as 'what you say and how you say it is a reflection of a deeper truth'. (136) This illuminates his path. He ignores idealism; like many sojourners to these redoubts, he confronts a common impasse. Weary locals rebuff learners' attempts.

As this demonstrates, in the Gaeltacht, its public language becomes English; parents revert to Irish as a private medium; meanwhile children brought up as native speakers find themselves weakened by the influx of those relocating there with little or no Irish. At school, the classes may stay in public Irish, but McCaughan suspects children revert to English on their own watch, This imbalance presents a conundrum. To assist with their ancestral language the Irish people, who needs it most? Should entities support native communities or learners in urban centres, queuing at Gaelscoileannaí?

Contrasting the decision of most Irish to pay no more than lip service to Gaeilge, McCaughan credits the Zapatista movement, celebrating its indigenous and 'unbroken link to their ancestors' who use Tzeltal. The U'wa of Colombia choose their own too, rather than capitulate to the colonial imposition of Spanish. Proximity need not result in subservience or expediency; Central Europe and Scandinavia revived their local languages in the same period that millions of the Irish lost their own. McCaughan admits key revival differences historically and economically. Yet he seeks out a lively inspiration,

He strengthens his familial tie to the North of Ireland. The selfless attitude and volunteer spirit in Bóthar Seoighe infuses revival. State-designated enclaves mean simply places where Irish is spoken, But "the growth of Gaeilge in Belfast carries the mystique of a forbidden language spoken against the odds, and with a hint of subversive mischief'. (160) On the Falls Road, he sees more evidence of living Irish than in all of Dublin, Cork and Galway cities. Republican activists Michaél Mac Giolla Gunna, Féilim Ó hAdhmaill and Anthony McIntyre agree that their acquired Irish as crafted and transmitted in lessons 'behind the wire' conveyed a generosity imbued with true freedom. Their children, whether in class or at home, are growing up with both languages, with spontaneous poise.

This open-hearted reaction to Irish among those dubbed Nordies cheers this Ulsterman-once-removed.. Adults seek out Irish too, within not only West Belfast communities which welcome what was long persecuted. Ulster-Scots advocate Linda Ervine at the East Belfast mission started from far less than scratch. She conceives of her Irish-language endeavour as a 'vocation, an activity that needs to happen regardless of money'. (177) Their provincial roots tangle in garbled, anglicised place names and natural landmarks. West of Maghera, in south Derry, Gaeilge resurrects from this fresh soil, 'present yet invisible.' (198) At Carn Tóchair, this 'post-colonial option' cultivates a 'critical mass' of learners-to-speakers; what began with half a dozen in 1992 has grown to 180, young and old, fluent.

Niall Ó Catháin champions this líofacht enclave of those reuniting with this subterranean presence. For the Irish language 'was taken from us, and if we want it back we have to use it'. This bold grip reminds the writer of other surprising connections. Peadar Ó Riada tells McCaughan that in the tuneful townland of Cúil Aodha near Cork, a local, Lizzie O'Brien, was godmother to Sid Vicious.

McCaughan misses his chance here to nod to John Lydon's childhood visits to his own maternal domain in that very county. Derided then for his north London accent, he may today travel under an Irish passport, but he still bristles at being mocked for his tone. Lydon became infamous for rejecting many English symbols, as well as Catholic pieties. Ó Riada swirls Irish lyrics into world sounds. In their own ways, both play off a rebellious streak against clerics, some long supposed a Gaelic ally.

He seeks a decentralised Celtic Christian tradition, and as Lydon might accept, 'an atheist god if you like'. (209) If the North reveals the refusal at last to treat the accents in Irish as sectarian shibboleths, so Cúil Aodha suggests the native speaker's home advantage. Lydon and Ó Riada might concur that one born to the language applies his tongue unconsciously, as natural. This ease can never be totally gained by tutelage. It may single one out, depending on the setting, but it also anchors born speakers.

Concluding this journey around Ireland, McCaughan repeats the experience of others who have sought to find themselves through Irish. Native or learner, both find 'this is no country for Irish speakers'. (251) Relegated to the formulaic cúpla focal from a politician, a Republican and/or an Aer Lingus flight attendant, Gaeilge reveals its second-place status. The battle over Irish-only signage for An Daighean/ Dingle and the resentment from the tourist industry, second-home dwellers and visitors to Gaeilge amháin sa Ghaeltacht confirms the truth of McCaughan's charge. Yet he brandishes one cheery sign himself. The 'can-do philosophy' in the Six Counties epitomizes its 'brass nerve'. South of the border, this courage dwindles. Enlivened, McCaughan ends with a hope that one focal at a time, an Irish polity committed to diversity will sustain and nourish its native language, as its daily reality.

Dublin: Gill Books. 6 June 2017. ₤7.99/ € 14.99. 256 pp.

"Her Exiled Children": The Irish in Montana

A month ago, I attended this gathering of scholars and supporters in Missoula. The American Conference of Irish Studies-West regional meeting coincided with the exhibit "Her Exiled Children". In turn, to my surprise, these events dovetailed with a visit to Big Sky Country from the Irish Ambassador to the U.S., and the Governor of the state. The locals were out to welcome us delegates.

Professor David M. Emmons, Irish West expert and retired historian at the U. of Montana, guided our bus tour. We rode past the Clark Fork named after the explorer, and then the back way on Highway 1 to skirt more riparian valleys. The weather forecast was for rain, so I dressed the part, but I did not need to, as the climate was brisk but clear. Recent snowfalls speckled peaks. Far away from 90· L.A.

We stopped after an hour and a half in Anaconda, a copper mining town that stood out not only for its stack (my seatmate compared it to Sauron's tower) but its hardscrabble endurance as an Irish-managed production hub for that mineral much of the past century. It was a bustling region where the bosses were Catholic, as well as the workingmen and women. Little cabins attested to the life of the miners and their families, who walked out to the mines and back, by the railroad, self-contained.

The steadfast Corkonian, Dr. Traolach Ó Riordáin, told me that the children of Seámus Moriarty only spoke Irish at home back then, but that such fidelity to Gaeilge was the exception. But I never heard such an amount of an teanga beo in America before, for he and others chatted away in it, naturally. My two halting attempts failed to rouse responses. When I complimented his young son on his tweed hat, or when I warned him to be careful as he lugged a concrete block in the cemetery, both attempts at conversation were ignored by him. Will nobody ever understand my bleats, as exiled Gaeilgeoir?

You can see me in this snapshot at the AOH breakfast hosted for us at the Anaconda branch, one of the few west of the Mississippi, and one still, I am happy to report, thriving today after decades on. I never expected such a reception and it testified to unapologetic pride I felt during my too-brief visit. This mortás cine is perpetuated by the Friends of Irish Studies in the West, which I've happily joined.

Butte dramatically perches on the side of a massive pit. So much so that neighborhoods of Italians and Eastern Europeans were dug into, for the resources beneath outweighed the value of those on the top. The memorial to hundreds who died in one of many accidents is moving, with flags of many nations around to commemorate the losses of those from around the world driven to that far corner.

I heard the daughter of the famed poet Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill exclaim "there's Turkey!": land of her father, as we all entered the marker area. Sure enough, the lists of the dead were diverse, although mainly Irish. Back then, almost 100,000 lived there. Now as in Anaconda, far fewer: a third of that.

Montana boasts even today at 27% the highest percentage of Irish-identified U.S. residents. That cheered me. I knew historically there'd been many miners, but I did not realize how many stayed.

Vowing to return, to the Mining Museum, the town excited me. The downtown again struggles, but its buildings preserved from that boom era could entice the bold and brave today, to restore and care for them a mile high. Up by Walkerville, dwellings stretched out in precarious, attenuated, thinning lines, presumably to avoid the subsidence that would swallow them up from those voracious excavations.

The archives there attracted me. I wanted to scrabble in them, especially for Fr. Michael Hannan's diary where he lamented his stay among the squabbling clergy and all those non-recalcitrants from Hibernia not sharing his belief in a particular brand of Fenian payback. Professor Emmons showed me the scrawl of photocopies of the priest's diary: not easy to decipher. But he published his findings in The American Journal of Irish Studies (2012 issue; abstract only, alas, online for we the curious).

The cemetery walk in Butte also alerted me to the many graves from the Spanish American War, next to a Mass Rock memorial. I wondered why the amount. The number seemed disproportionate for the city. I suppose to me, any death toll is more than it should be, going to fight in such dubious battles. A lesson for all who labor to resurrect the names and deeds of those rallied to a cause, and with arms.

Slán a fhágáil ag Harry

Bím ag scriobh seo inniu, 2ú Marta. Chaith muid ag fáil ár piscín, Harry, ag codhladh. Tá leoicéime aige.

Bhí sé ina stríoc bán ar a driomh dubh. Bhí sé cosúil le scúnc. D'iarr muid air "scúncín."

Bhí sé an-chíuín. Mar sin féin, "purred" sé. Ar maidin, tháinig Harry chun suí agamsa.

"Purred" sé is airde. Bhí Léna ábalta chloisteáil dó ar fud an tseomra. Is é mo chuimhne air.

Bhí sé féin agus a dheartháir Jerry ach ceithre mhí d'aois. Tá brón orainn anseo. Deanfaimid chailleain Harry.

Goodbye to Harry.

I am writing this today, March 2nd. We has to put our kitten, Harry, to sleep. He had leukemia.

He had a white stripe on his black back. It was like a skunk. We called him "little skunk."

He was very quiet. Nevertheless, he purred. This morning, Harry came to sit with me.

He purred very loud. Layne was able to hear him across the room. It is my memory of him.

He himself and his brother Jerry were but four months old. We are sorry here. We will miss Harry.

Image/íomha

Fiosracht faoi na Gearmáine Thoir

Le déanaí, bhreatnaigh mé an scannán "Victoria." Tarlaíonn sé i mBeirlin inniu. Bhi chuimhne liom go raibh mé fiosracht faoi an hOirthear na Gearmáine ar feadh i bhfad.

Thósaigh mé a léamh úrscéalaí agus neamh-fhicsean faoi na DDR. Ach, níl sé leabhair go leor áistriú ag Béarla. Mar sin féin, fuair mé sinn roinnt sa leabharlann.

Nuair bhí mé óg, le linn an Chogadh Fuar, bhailigh mé stampaí. Bhí maith liom ag foghlaim faoi áiteannaí i gcéin. Chónaic mé an séala na Germáine Thoir lena casúr agus compás.

Machnaimh mé a thromchúisi. Bhí mé ar eolas faoi na daoine a bhí ina gcónaí ann. An raibh siad i ndáiríre cosúil le Stalin agus na cummainaithe, mar Gearmánaigh iad féin?

Ina theannta sin, rinne na Seápaine agus Germánaigh mhaith linn, áititheorí Mheiriceá? Thuig mé ag duine mar a bhí in usaid dom go stampa. Maith nó olc, bhí mé cosuil leis ó léi.

Curious about East Germany.

Recently, I watched the film "Victoria." It happens in Berlin today. It reminded me I have had a curiosity about East Germany for a long time.

I started to read novels and non-fiction about the DDR. But, there's not many books translated into English. Nevertheless, I found some in the library.

When I was young during the Cold War, I collected stamps. I liked learning about faraway places. I saw the seal of East Germany with its hammer and compass.

I pondered its severity. I wanted to know more about the people who lived there. Did they really like Stalin and the Communists, as Germans? 

Furthermore, did the Japanese and Germans like us, American occupiers? I realized a person like me had used that stamp. Good or bad, I was like him or her.

Fáilte go dtí Jerry + Larry

Nach beag tri seachtaine ó shin, chuir mé iontas sa bhaile. D'imithe mé ar shiúil le haghaidh ar maidin. Nuair a d'fhill mé, chónaic mé dha piscín thuas staighre.

Mar sin, thuig mé go raibh an beirt nua. Bhí siad dubh agus ban chomh Gary, Mary, agus Malcolm. Ach, bhí níos lú Jerry agus Larry, seacht seachtaine d'aois sin.

Ó shin, bím leo oiread agus is féidir sa bhaile. Is maith liom ag breathnú orthu imirt. Ar ndóigh, is brea leo a codhladh go leor, ar cheile, ar an leaba.

Shíl mé go mbeadh is maith leis ár madra Opie iad. Tá sí ag fás go mall leis seo. Measaim go raibh sí codlaíonn leo ar feadh an h-óiche, fós.

Is cuimhne linn amannaí alannaí leis Gary, Mary agus Malcolm. Anois, tá Jerry agus Larry anseo. Taithneamh a bhaint as a n-chuideachta.

Welcome to Jerry + Larry.

Almost three weeks ago, I found a surprise at home. I had left for the morning. When I returned, I saw two kittens upstairs.

Therefore, I realized that they were a new pair. They were black and white like Gary, Mary, and Malcolm. But, Jerry and Larry were far smaller, seven weeks old then.

Since then, I have been with them as often as possible at home. I like watching them play. Of course, they love to sleep a lot, together, on the bed.

I think that our dog Opie may like them. She is growing slowly at this. I reckon that she is sleeping with them during the night, too.

We remember lovely times with Gary, Mary, and Malcolm. Now, we have Jerry and Larry here. We enjoy their company.

Jhumpa Lahiri agus teanga ag fhoghlaim

Léigh mé aiste le Jhumpa Lahiri ina h-iris An Nua-Eabhracha faoi deireanach. Tá sé dar teideal "Múin do féin Iodáilis." Tuigim sé go hiomlán.

Mar sin é, ní thuigim i bhfad an teanga Iodáile fós. Ach, tá fhíos agam féin an streachailt os sí féin. Níl easca é a fhoghlaim teanga éagsúil ina cathair ar leith.

Scríobh sí faoi radharc ar an eolas domsa. D'fhoglaim sí ar dtus ó an teanga iasachta ina SAM. Ansin, chuaigh sí go a talamh dhúchais.

Ní raibh sí ábalta iarraidh le haghaidh treorachaí ar an tsráid ann. Ní fheadfadh sí ag insint go fhreastalaí h-ordú. D'fheadfaidh sí labhairt ar éigean ar chor ar bith.

Mar sin féin, bhí sí ar cíos árasán i Roimh. D'fhan sí ar an gceanna Via Giulia go shiúl mé níos lú an mhí ó shin. Thosaigh sí ar scríobh ina teanga difriúil.

Jhumpa Lahiri and language learning.

I read an essay by Jhumpa Lahiri in the magazine The New Yorker recently. It is titled "Teach Yourself Italian". I understand it totally.

That is, I do not understand a lot of the Italian language yet. But, I know myself her own struggle. It is not easy to study a different language in a separate city.

She writes about a view familiar to me. She learned the start of a foreign language in the USA. Then, she went to its native land.

She was not able to ask for directions in the street. She could not tell a waiter her order. She was barely able to speak at all.

Nevertheless, she rented an apartment in Rome. She stayed on the same Via Giulia that I walked less than a month ago. She started to write in a different tongue. (Photo/Grianghraf)

Slan leat, Gary-cat

Fuair Gary bás an tseachtaine seo caite. D'fhán ár cat go dtí go fhill ó ár turas. Ach, chaith sé an h-ám. 

Scríobhím seo leis brón. Ní raibh mé ag iarraidh a clóscríobh na focail seo. Mar sin féin, bíonn mé ag insint orthú anois. 

Bhí dúil mhór agam air. Shuigh sé liom. Chódail sé ar dom. 

Ós rud é go luath i 2002, chúram againn le haghaidh dó agus a dheirfiúr, Maire. Chuaigh ar shiúl a ndeartháir Larry. Ach d'fhán Maire agus Gary le breis agus dosaen bliain ar chéile. 

Tá súil agam go bhfuil ar neamh i n-spéir, dó agus ár peataí atá caite. Is fada liom uaim iad. Is mian liom iad go léir tsíocháin.
 

Goodbye to you, Gary-cat.
 
Gary met his death a week ago. Our cat waited until we returned from our trip. But, it must be the time. 

I write this with sadness. I did not want to type these words. All the same, I am telling you now.  

I loved him. He sat on me. He slept on me. 

Since early in 2002, we cared for him and his sister, Mary. Their brother Larry went away. But Mary and Gary stayed for more than a dozen years together. 

I hope that he and our past pets are in their heaven. I miss them. I wish them all peace.

Eric Cross' "The Tailor and Ansty": Book Review

While Eamon de Valera famously judged |"in its general tendency" this 1941 account as ''indecent," years later, the tone of these stories as told by the titular couple from Muskerry in West Cork feels quaint, conveyed from these believers in the fair folk. I found Eric Cross's editorial voice slightly patronizing, as if he was guiding us to a pair of animatronic figures programmed to speak on command their scripted recital. Still, the content, if you can handle the now-antiquated air of the tales told by Tom Buckley and his wife, Anastasia (Ansty).

In Gougane Barra, the earthy life is recounted, whether of people or of animals. Thus Dev's squeamishness. Ansty plays the more curdled to the less ruffled Tailor her partner. Originally published in the well-known The Bell, as fellow Corkman Frank O'Connor reminisces in his 1964 introduction, this take on the imagined and idealized benefits of rural Irish life resulted in the couple being boycotted while Cross' book was debated and denounced by many in the Irish government.

O'Connor also reminds us that the Tailor had a wider range in his native Irish of expression, and that the English is narrower, if still indicative second-hand of his wide-ranging mind and temperament. I'd say it's livelier for readers now than Peig Sayers' tales of woe, halfway to those parodied by Flann O'Brian in his The Poor Mouth, translated from his own Irish, sending-up such rustic ruminations and raw exaggerations. Classified as a biography "as told to," it stirs up blurred fact and lots of fiction.
(Amazon US 11-4-15)

Máirtín Ó Cadhain's "The Dirty Dust": Book Review

The most important prose work in Modern Irish, Máirtín Ó Cadhain's Cré na Cille has never before been published in English. This 1949 novel, as Alan Titley introduces his blunt, bold rendering into our language, carries the flow of chatter "you might hear outside a door when everyone inside is tearing themselves apart; or in a country churchyard in the light of day". The title resists easy equivalence, although "churchyard clay" has long served as as its English echo for critics. Titley, a skilled writer and critic in Irish, prefers the biblical resonance of ashes and soil, for this narrative takes place entirely in a Connemara cemetery, as its interred bicker and boast among themselves.

It was inspired by a report in the author's native West of Ireland where a woman was buried inadvertently atop her rival one day too rainy for the gravediggers to bother with niceties. An onlooker mourned: "Oh holy cow, there's going to be one almighty gabble!" Ó Cadhain set his novel, akin to what Titley calls switching channels between various conversations on a radio, in townlands he knew well in County Galway, near the Atlantic shore among its Irish-speaking community. Then, that language was still connected to those in the nineteenth century who had spoken no other. The author did not hear English until the age of six. Rich in imagery, curt in tone, this dialect of Irish can be difficult for those who encounter it today. Titley prefers a conversational, casual tide of chat, cursing, and reverie to wash over Ó Cadhain's characters. This eases the reader's challenge. The author plunges us immediately into a fictional tale told in dialogue and interruption.

Yet, even if Caítríona Paudeen's new arrival among the dead makes her by default the protagonist, the buried characters surrounding her six feet under crowd her out. Many of her neighbors resent her airs. It is best to let this rattling narrative roll on, rather than resist its banter or weary of its nagging. As a downed French pilot now and then complains in his own native tongue (untranslated): these scolds bore him. He had hoped to find peace in death, but the tomb seems not to be dead at all. Rather, the foreigner, struggling to figure out the meaning of the babble around him, finds it betrays the same old ennui. Sympathizing with his plight, I found myself drifting along as the voices resounded and receded. It's not hard to give way to them as background noise rather than scintillating exchanges.

The liveliest portions open most chapters. The "Trumpet of the Graveyard" summons souls to a reckoning. Ó Cadhain contrasts the joys of the living with the dread of the dead. He also here evokes the intricacy of Irish-language verse by departed bards: "But the flakes of foam on the fringe of a surge of a stream are slurping in towards the shallows of the river where they slobber on the rough sand." The alliteration and end-rhyme give way as they ebb into brutal phrases, and a sudden stop.

Meanwhile, without fresh news to filter into the soil, insults and laments repeat. No effort at organization lasts long; a Rotary Club, an election, a cultural society all flounder. Jonathan Swift's prediction of "a road on every track and English in every shack" threatens the isolation of the village. Its cadaverous inhabitants debate a medieval prophecy attributed to St. Colmcille about the signs of the world's end. This sense of doom deepens in the novel's vague duration during the middle of the Second World War. The corpses debate, as did their real-life counterparts, the comparative merits of the Germans and the British as allies for officially neutral Ireland. The Antichrist's return is rumored.

The talking dead are uncertain if D-Day has occurred. Only with the internment of the newest arrival, Billy the Postman, do the rest learn that none of their graveside crosses are made of Connemara marble. The dead had asserted this, each trying to put down the others, so as to boost their own status. That incident concludes this novel. Its recurring themes of discontent and rivalry dominate whatever  moments of tenderness and solidarity remain after village life has given way to common death. In this sobering depiction of a determined counter to the stereotypes of Irish rural relationships, native son Maírtín Ó Cadhain in his native language sought to correct myth with truth. As ably translated by Alan Titley, the results recall Samuel Beckett's Waiting for Godot and Martin McDonagh's play, both of which feature this same milieu, as they include too the telling phrase of "a skull in Connemara".
(PopMatters 2-24-15; Amazon US 3-12-15)

Péig Sayers' "Péig": Book Review

While this well-known account has sat on my shelf for decades, I read this only after staying in the author's native village of Dun Chaoin (Dunquin) in the West Kerry/Corca Dhuibhne Gaeltacht. Its prescribed reading for generations of schoolchildren subjected to compulsory Irish has weakened its reputation. I noted when travelling around the Dingle area and her 1873 birthplace that nothing I could see revealed Péig Sayers' presence, although my stay there was too brief, and half at night, to allow me to investigate further. Her book and that of her son are still in print and in local shops, and surely the study of the Blaskets accounts for the bulk of local commemoration, or the scholarship given to her memoir and those of her fellow islanders.

What surprised me was how much of her autobiography took place in her youth, not only in Dun Chaoin but in her Irish-speaking schooldays in the family's new residence An Ceann Trá (Ventry) nearer to Dingle, where she went to work for a household while in her teens. Most of this book are stories, naturally, told by her, with frequent invocations to the holy presences that once filled many an Irish person's mind and mouth, whether they knew the Irish or had given over to the English tongue.

After marriage takes her across the strait to the Blasket Island home where she raises a family, the years compress. The last third or so of the narrative, as with many a teller's life, is more weighted down by sorrow and lament. The frequency of these woes has led to Flann O'Brian's parody translated as The Poor Mouth by Myles na gCopaleen, to the detriment of this original inspiration. 

These tales, a century later, are frankly not that arresting. Bryan MacMahon's translation came too late for many a cribbing child's lessons, but it conveys the air of the Irish for we English-speaking readers. This may or may not be a strength for today's audiences, but the value of this historical record remains. It's not the most gripping account, but visitors to these shores today may give it a go.
(Amazon US 11-4-15)

Oíche Shamhna ag imeall an Brú na Bóinne

Tá Lena agus mise in Uladh anois. Thug muid cuairt go dtí ár mac is óige ina Colaiste na Bhaird ina Stáit Nua-Eabhrac ar feadh ag deireach na tseachtaine seo caite. Ansin, eitil muid go dtí mBaile átha Cliath cúpla lá ó shín.

Go tapaidh, d'fhág muid an t-aerphort. Thiomaint muid go Droichead Átha. Chuir cuairt leis ár chairde, an chlann Mac an tSaoir.

Mar sin d'fhan muid in aice leis a dteach, fheadfaidh muid ag caint leis an teaghlach níos mó. Labhair mé leis an fear chéile agus an bean chéile le chéile, mar shampla, agus bhuail Lena na paiste go léir. Bhí mé ag plé leo as Gaeilge beagán, freisin.

Inne, d'imigh ár chairde. Bhí brón orainn, ach is gá duinn chun freastal air ár chairde eile i gCorrdubh i gContae Muineachán. Dá bhrí sin, bím ag scríobh an aiste seo an óiche roimh na h-Oíche Shamhna ina Teach Mór na Coill-a-Lios i Liosnalong, idir na bhaile na Muineachán agus Cabhan.

Bain sult as againn an faoin tuath anseo; chuaigh muid riamh go mBrú na Bóinne ach bhí an turas dúnadh ann. Is ciúin é thart anseo agus níos dorcha faoi an gealach beagnach lán, gan amhras. Amárach, beidh sé an lá roimh Samhain; b'fhéidir, is féidir liomsa féin a fheicéail ar an bhearna isteach na Saol Eile.

Halloween's Eve near the Boyne.

Layne and I myself am in Ulster now. We visited our younger son in Bard College in New York State during last weekend. Then, we flew to Dublin a few days ago.

Rapidly we left the airport. We drove to Drogheda. We paid a visit to our friends, the McIntyre clan.

Because we stayed near their house, we were able to speak to the household (family) more. I spoke with the husband and the wife together, for instance, and Layne met the children all. I spoke with them both in Irish a bit, too. 

Yesterday, we left behind our friends. We were sad, but we have a need to meet our other friends in Corduff in Co Monaghan. Therefore, I write this entry on the night before the night of Samhain's eve in Killyliss Country House in Lisnalong, between the towns of Monaghan and Cavan.

We are enjoying the countryside here; we went to Newgrange but the tour was full. It is quiet around here and darker under the nearly full moon, for sure. Tomorrow, it will be the eve of Samhain; perhaps, I may see the gap into the Other Life. 

Go Dakota Thuas ar ais

Beidh mé i nDakota Thuas aríst go luath. Chuir mé cuairt mo priomh-turas an bhlian seo caite. Bhí sé ina Deireadh Fomhair, fós.

Cén fath? Tá mé ag dul go Dakota Thuas a thabhairt ar an caint. Tá sé faoi an clár "Clann na h-Aonrial" agus téamaí Éireannachaí air.

Measaim go beidh mé an h-am taitneamhach ansuid. Bhí maith liom ag feacháint an Chnoc Rushmore, Te Spriongaí, na buabhaill ina bPairc Stáit na Custer, Adhman Marbh, na Tailte Dona, agus na Cnoic Dubh an h-uair deireanach, mar shampla. Ach, ní maith liom a fhilleadh go an Síopa Drogaí na Bhallaí.

Chuala mé go raibh dhá teach tabhairne ansin. Tá áit amháin an ainmithe Ui Néill. Is é eile an dara ainmithe Ui Murchú in aice leis.

Mar sin, tá fhios agam a beidh mé ag dul go dtí i gCathair Tapa. Tá súil agam go raibh an leann dubh ceart ann.  Tá mé ag do is fearr, ní i gcónaí na hAonghusa.

Back to South Dakota.

I will be in South Dakota again soon. I paid my first visit there the past year. It was in October, too.

Why? I am going to South Dakota to give a talk. It is on the program "Sons of Anarchy" and its Irish themes.

I reckon it will be a pleasant time up there. I liked seeing Mount Rushmore, Hot Springs, the buffalo in Custer State Park, Deadwood, the Badlands, and the Black Hills last year, for example. But, I do not want to return to Wall's Drug Store.

I heard that there are two pubs there. The first is called O'Neill's. The second is called Murphy's nearby.

Therefore, I know where I am going when I go to Rapid City. I hope that there is the right stout there. I look for the best, not always Guinness. (Photo/Ghriangraf)

Ag dul go bPairc Sequoia

 
Chuaigh Léna agus mé go bPairc Náisiúnta Sequoia Dé Ceardaoin ar feadh an tseachtaine seo caite. Bhí an Lá de Leorghnímh ann. Mar sin, níl obair aici.

D'iarr sí ag imirt go an teorainn nua. Ní raibh feicthe againn an ceantar faoi na Sierras Thiar ag imeall an Gleann Lárnach. D'fhág muid ár baile ag méan lae.

Thiomaint muid leis ár madra, Opie. Chodlainn sí sa suiomh ar ais. Ní raibh sí ag iarraidh chun breathnú amach.

Ach, rinne mé. Is maith liom ag feacháil na úlloird de liomóidí agus ológaí in aice leis an bailte beagaí. Rith muid tri Bakersfield (ró-te, in aice le 100F), Terra Bella (bhaile dúhais sean-chara), Porterville (eaglaisí go leor), Lindsay (ag fháil bhais ológái), Exeter (an-deas), Lemon Cove (ag fáil bhais), agus Three Rivers (sprionlaithe--aon leithreas phoiblí). Faoi deireadh, tháinig muid an Pairc.

Is maith linn na crannaí rua, agus na móineír Halstead, glas agus ag tabhairt cuireadh le mo radharc. Thít trathnóna nuair d'fhág muid uair an chloig ina dhiaidh sin dhá. Ëist muid go dtí an leabhar "The Secret History" a léamh ag a údar, Donna Tartt, ar an mbealach abhaile fada; d'fhill muid aice le méan oíche.

Going to Sequoia National Park. 

Layne and I went to Sequoia National Park on Wednesday during the past week. It was Yom Kippur. Therefore, she did not work.

She wanted to get out to new territory. We had never seen the region around the Western Sierras around the Central Valley. We left our house at noon.

We drove with our dog, Opie. She slept in the back seat. She did not want to look out.

But, I did. I liked seeing the orchards of lemons and olives near the small towns. We passed through Bakersfield (too-hot, near 100F), Terra Bella (hometown of an old friend), Porterville (lots of churches), Lindsay (dying olives), Exeter (very nice), Lemon Cove (dying), and Three Rivers (miserly--no public restrooms). Finally, we came to the Parc.

We liked the redwoods, and the Halstead Meadow, green and inviting to my sight. Dusk fell when we left two hours later. We listened to the book "The Secret History" read by Donna Tartt, on the long way home; we returned near midnight. (Grianghraf/Photo)

Bradan agus Salman

Chuala Léna agus mé scríbhneoir cáiliúil an tseachtaine seo caite. Chuaigh muid go dtí ar lar ina gCathair na hÄingeal. Chonaic muidsa Salman Rushdie ag an leabharlann lárnach ansin.

Go nádurtha, tá leabhar nua aige a plé. Ach, d'iarraidh muid ach a fhéiceail air ag ár cathair. Go fírinne, ní raibh breá "Na Veársaí 'Ghaire Ghalar Dubhach" go mór. Shíl mé go raibh sé ró-scaipthe.

Mar sin féin, bhi maith muid ag breathnú Rushdie. D'inis sé dúinn faoi an dith de chaint saor in aisce. Chuir sé i gcoinne 'rabhaidh spreagadh' agus géilleadh na chinsireacht san Eoraip 's Méiricea Thuadh.

Thít sé go leor aimnreachtaí. Mheas se go raibh Bob Dole an-leadránach. Chinn sé Bill Clinton an-deas. agus Seoirse Ö Chluaine an-dathúil, mar shampla...aon iontas.

Níos luaithe, d'ith bradan agus gnocchi ina bialann fineáil, "Industriel" ag 6th agus Grand. D'ól leann dubh-bainne ó Longmont i gColorado. Beidh muid ar ais ann nuair atá againn níos mó ama.

Salmon and Salman

Layne and I heard a famous writer this past week. We went to the downtown Los Angeles. We saw Salman Rushdie at the Central Library there.

Naturally, he had a new book to discuss. But, we wanted to go only to see him in our city. Truthfully, I did not love "The Satanic Verses." I thought it was too scattered.

Nevertheless, we liked watching Rushdie. He told us about the need for free speech. He stood against "trigger warnings" and capitulating to censorship in Europe and North America.

He dropped many names. He thought Bob Dole was very boring. He found Bill Clinton very charming and George Clooney very handsome, for example...no surprises.

Earlier, we ate salmon and gnocchi at a fine restaurant, Industriel, at 6th and Grand. I drank milk stout from Longmont in Colorado. We will return there when we have more time.

Ghrianghraf/Photo: Tá muid ag suí ar bhealach ar ais anseo! We are sitting a long way back here!

Ag an Babhla na Choillte Chulleain aríst.

 

Ar feadh an tseachtaine seo caite, thóg amach Léna agus mé leis Niall agus a chailín Áine. Chuaigh muid ag an Babhla na Choillte Chulleain aríst. Chuala muid ceithre saothair ceile.

Bhí siad téama na Fraince ann. Bhí maith liom an príomh-piosa is mó ann. Bhí sé an shionsacht daicheadú le Mozart. Tá sé ainmithe "an bParas,"ar ndóigh.

Ach, bhí sé an-ghearr ann. Ansin, bhí sé an dara piosa le Saint-Saens. Bhí se reasunta mór, ach go gearr, tháinig dordveidhle óg agus rinne sé go-hiontach.

Bhí sós ann. D'ith ceapaire cáis leis arán maith. D'ól leann Indiach geal "Loser" le Elysium i tSeattle agus leann dubh "Black Rhino" ó Grualann Adelbert i hAustin.

Sheineamh siad piosaí le Ibert agus Haydn. Bhí an priomh-piosa chomh ceol im "Bugs Bunny"; ní fheadfaidh go chuimne liomsa le Haydn is mó ach oiread! Mar sin féin, bhain sult as againnsa suas na rialtaí mar i gcónaí.

At the Hollywood Bowl again.

During the past week, Layne and I took Niall and his girlfriend Ann out. We went to the Hollywood Bowl again. We heard four musical works.

They had a French theme. I liked the first piece most. It was the fortieth symphony by Mozart. It is named "The Paris," of course.

But it was very short. Then there was the second piece by Saint-Saens. It was all right, but suddenly a young cellist came and made it wonderful.

There was a break. I ate a cheese sandwich with good bread. I drank an IPA "Loser" from Elysium in Seattle and a dark ale "Black Rhino" from Adelbert Brewery in Austin.

They played pieces by Ibert and Haydn. The first piece was like music in "Bugs Bunny": I cannot recall the Haydn much either! Nevertheless, we enjoyed ourselves under the stars as always.

(Ghriangraf/Photo.)

Is chlé-libraíoch mé

Measaim go mise a gcéanna faoi deireadh. Nuair bím ag smaoineamh faoi chúrsaí polaitíulái, ar an laghad. Thúg mé tráth na gceist an mí seo caite, mar shampla. 

Mar is féidir leat a fheichéail, is chlé-libraíoch anseo. Bhí léite agam go leor faoi ainrialachas ar feadh na blianta beaga anuas. Go hairithe os rud Occupy i 2011. 

D'fhoghlaim mé go bhfuil mé idir libraíochas agus sóisaleachas ar an iarmhéid. Roimh seo, thuig mé go bhfuil mé ar an chlé. Ach, níl me ar an thaobh na láimhe deise de réir na libraíoch, gan amhras.

Go teoiriciúil, seasamh mé i measc iad siúd nach bhfuil bhfabhar ceannairí tofa. Go fírinne, is maith liom ag staonadh ó vótáil d'iarrthóirí i dtóghcháin móra. Níl maith liom an dá phríomh-páirithe i náisiún seo.

Mar sin féin, caithfidh mé a chinneadh ag déanamh i 2016. Bíonn iarrthóir nua ó na Sóisialaithe anois--ach tá sé ag rith mar Daonlathaigh. Ní aontaim le roinnt na chuid ardán, ach aointaim le go leor de na sé. Beidh mé a feiceáil go luath má mhaireann sé an bliain seo chugainn.  

Left-libertarian me.

I judge that I myself am the same lately. When I think about political matters, at any rate. I took this
quiz last month, for example. 

As you can see, I am left-libertarian here. I had read a lot about anarchism during the past few years. Especially since Occupy in 2011. 

I learned that I am between libertarianism and socialism on the balance. Before this, I understood that I am on the left. But, I am not on the side of the right-hand regarding the libertarians, no doubt. 

In theory, I stand among those who do not favor elected leaders. Certainly, I like abstention from voting for candidates in major elections.  I do not like the two major parties in this nation. 

All the same, I must choose what to do in 2016, There is a new candidate from the Socialists now--but he is running as a Democrat. I do not agree with some of his platform, but I agree with much of it. I will see soon if he lasts the next year.

Iasc betta anseo

D'imigh Caisaide go dti Prág le déanaí. Tá iasc "betta" aici. Mar sin, tá dith uainn chun bheatha é.

Ní raibh mé a chothú iasc riamh. Bhain mé triail as dhéanamh seo. Ach, ní raibh mé ábalta a mheas nuair a chothú an t-am ceart, fós.

Ní raibh a fhoglaim an uair nuair Leon nó Caisaide chothú é, freisin.
Ní raibh a fheicéail siad go minic ar feadh an tsamraidh. D'obair muid agus ní raibh fhios againn chéile.

Bhreathaim an iasc rua. Snamh sé thart. Mar sin féin, nach bhfuil sé in ann maireachtáil leis an iasc eile. 

N'fheadar má tá sé sásta nó feargach anseo. Bheul, tá fhios ag Leon an uair agus an méid bea anois. Measaim go beidh a chothrú aire a thabhairt do an t-iasc.

A betta fish here.

Cassidy left for Prague recently. She has a "betta" fish. Therefore, there's a need for us to feed it.

I have not taken care of a fish before. I tried to do this. But, I was not able to judge when to care for it at the right time, still.

I did not learn the time when Leo or Cassidy cared for it, also. I did not see them often during a week. We worked and we did not know when we'd be together.

I watched the red fish. It swims around. Nevertheless, it is not able to live with another fish.

I wonder if it's happy or angry here. Well, Leo knows the time and the amount of food now. I think that he will take care of the fish. Photo/ Grianghraf.

A bheith Gaeilge

Scríobh Anna Hoffman faoi an dúshlán a shábháil ar ár teanga ársa. Duirt sí ina Huffington Post go

raibh an lucht na Gaeilgoirí go mbeadh i dtrioblóid. De réir UNESCO, tá Gaeilge "cinnte i mbaol" anois.

Sainmhíonníon Cuan Ó Seireadáin ó Conradh na Gaeilge an faillí seo mar "béal grá." Mar sin, tá focaíl ach gan an ghníomh ann.  Aontaíonn Cian MacCárthaigh ó Raidió na Lífe go tugann An Rialtas na hÉireann ach "seirbhís liopa" leis an teanga oifigiúil.

Mar sin féin, cabhríonn an staísiún sin i mBaile Átha Cliath foghlaimeoirí. Tá gá le pobal a labhríonn an teanga le chéile, ar ndóigh. Measaim faoi mó chairde i nDroichead Átha ag fás leis Gaeilge.

Ar an lamh eile, ina Gaeltachtaí, tá an scéal gruama ansin. Nuair chuaigh mé go Dún na nGall ina tsamraidh 2007 a foghlaim Gaeilge ar feadh a coicís, ní raibh a daonra áitiúil a labhairt Gaeilge liom. B'fhéidir, dith orthu a labhairt Gaeilge ach amháin eatarthu féin. ach tá sin chuid den fhadhb, cinnte.

Meabhríonn Hoffman dúinn go labhairt "a bheith Gaeilge." Tá sé níos mó ná labhairt. Oidhreacht muid stór ríluachmhar a choiméad beo.

"To Have Irish"

Anna Hoffman writes about the challenge to save our ancestral language. She tells in the Huffington Post that the share of Irish-speakers may be in trouble. According to UNESCO, Irish is "definitely endangered" now.

Cuan Ó Seireadáin of Conradh na Gaeilge defines this neglect as "mouth-love." That is, there are words but no action. Cian MacCárthaigh of Raidió na Lífe agrees that the Irish government gives but "lip service" to the official tongue.

Nevertheless, that station in Dublin helps learners. There is need for a community to speak the language together, of course. I think of my friends in Drogheda growing up with Irish.

On the other hand, in the Gaeltachts, there is a dire situation there. When I went to Donegal in summer 2007 to study Irish during a fortnight, the local people did not want to speak Irish with me. Perhaps, there was a wish to speak Irish only between themselves, but that's part of the problem, sure.

Hoffman reminds us that we speak "to have Irish." This is more than speaking it. We inherit a priceless treasure to keep alive. (Photo/Grianghraf i mBéal Feirste Iarthar/in West Belfast; {"Labhairt cibé Gaeilge atá agat/Speak whatever Irish you have"})

Ag cheannaigh leann úll aríst

Is breá Léna leann úll. Mar sin, cheannaigh mé buidéil éagsulaí le déanaí. Bhí chomoráidh éagsulaí an tseachtain seo caite againn.

Chuaigh mé go an siopa in aice leis mo láthair oibre. Díolann é fíon go leor. Ach, tá beoir freisin ann.

A bliain ó shin, fuair mé ceirtlis difriúil ansin. Bhí maith linn "Quercus" le Bonny Doon. Anois, iarraidh mé a aimsiú bhrandaí eile aríst.

Roghnaigh mé Apple Pie agus Razzmatazz le Julian ag imeall Naomh Diego, agus Slice of Life le B. Nektar i Michigan. Fuair mé Pitchfork ó piorra le Sonoma agus An Naomh le Crispin, an beirt i gCalifoirnia Thuas. Ar deireadh, bailíodh mé Petritegi ina Tír na mBascach leis lipéad galánta fós.

Rinne mé an bailíuchan ar mo gluaisteán. Bhí an-te i Fada Trá an lá sin. Tá súil agam go mbeadh an deochannaí níos fionnuar nuair iad taithneamh a bhaint as le céile go luath.

Buying cider again. 

Layne loves cider. Therefore, I bought various bottles recently. We had celebrations this past week. 

I went to a shop near my place of work. It sells lots of wine. But, there is beer there too. 

A year ago, I got different ciders then. We liked "Quercus" by Bonny Doon. Now, I wanted to aim for other brands again. 

I chose Apple Pie and Razzmatazz by Julian near San Diego, and Slice of Life by B. Nektar in Michigan. I got Pitchfork from pears in Sonoma and The Saint by Crispin, the pair in Northern Califoirnia. Finally, I got Petritegi from the Basque Country with an elegant label too.

I gathered the collection for my car. It was very hot in Long Beach that day. I hope the drinks will be cooler when we enjoy them together soon. 

Grianghraf/Photo: Teach leann úll/Cider House ó/of Petritegi from/de 1527 i/in Astigarraga, Euskadi.

Tír na mBascach

Tá súil buaine agam faoi An Bhascais agus an Tír na mBascach. Foghlaim faoi na Bascaise fadó, ar ndóigh. Léigh mé an leabhar le Mark Kurlansky, "An Stair Bascais ar an domhan" agus an úrscéal le Bernardo Aztaga, freisin, ina dhiaidh sin.

Go fírinne, is nasc láidir idir na Bascaise agus an muintir na hÉireann anois. D'fhás sé seo leis na trioblóidí. Féachaint ar múrmhaisiú seo in hIarthar Bhéal Feirste, mar shampla.

Is "askatasuna" an bhrí na saoirse as Bascaise. Tá siad daoine an-ársa ansin. Tá muid gaolmhara sa Bhreatain Bheag agus i Éirinn go na Bascachaí ansiud an chuid is mo gar, fós, de réir gíneolaíocht.

Tá inimircigh Bascachaí ina hIdaho, Nevada, agus Califoirnea ó dheas ag imeall Bakersfield agus in Chino, gaire dom. Tá béilí mór acu ar chéile. Go minic, bhí aoirí anseo sa lá aois san Iarthar.

Bá mhaith liom ag dul go an Tír na mBascach go luath. Tá mé ábalta labhair i Spáinnis beágan agus tá mé ábalta léamh roinnt Fraincise, mar sin féin. Gan amhras, tá an teanga an Bhascais ro-deacair do achan duine ann lasmuigh den talamh ársa.

The Basque Country.

I've had an enduring interest in Basque and the Basque Country. I learned about the Basques long ago, of course. I later read Mark Kurlansky's book "The Basque History of the World" and a novel by Bernardo Atxaga too.

Truly, there is a strong link between the Basques and the people of Ireland now. This grew during the Troubles. Look at this mural in the West of Belfast, for instance.

"Askatasuna" is the meaning of freedom in Basque. The people are very ancient there. We are relatives in Wales and in Ireland to the Basques over there as our share is closest, still, in terms of genetics.

There are Basque immigrants in Idaho, Nevada, and Southern California around Bakersfield and in Chino, nearer to me. They have great meals together. Often, they were shepherds here in the old days of the West.

I would like to go to the Basque Country soon. I am able to speak in Spanish somewhat and I am able to read a share of French, all the same. Without a doubt, the language of the Basques is very difficult for everyone outside this ancient land.