Camera Obscura at De Balie

Scottish indie-popsters didn’t steal my heart and didn’t seem to make an effort trying either. The word ‘dour’ is probably overused in connection with ‘Scottish’, but you know the thing about cliches? They tend to have some truth in them. Some catchy tunes, too many filler songs. Not much action on stage so little chance of a spectacular photograph… hence the standard three-in-a-row.

In Glencolmcille (I)

(Peter made the mistake of mentioning Glencolmcille in the comments of my previous entry. I wrote this ten years ago.)

It’s the dialect!‘ Mary says. Originally from Dublin, she has lived in Leicester for the past 30 years. She’s in her fifties now and she is sitting with us in front of the fireplace of our little cottage. ‘It’s not fair. They’re not accommodating us at all. I don’t understand the teacher, she is yapping away with her the people from her area.’ Thomas and I listen to her lamentations and feel for her. For us ‘absolute beginners’, Mary is a wealth of knowledge. We practice during breakfast, asking each other for milk, butter and sugar in Irish. I’ve only been here a day.

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‘Here’ is Glencolmcille, the most western tip of county Donegal in Ireland, the heart of the Gaeltacht – the name given to the Irish speaking communities in Ireland. In the Foras Cultuir Uladh, Oideas Gael have been giving Irish courses for ten years now. Liam ó Cuinneagean, teacher in Dublin but originally from the area, is the organizer and instigator of the courses. He stands before us on the first day, his voice thick with the cold he’s got. The group is quite big, half of us are there for the language course, the other half will go hill-walking, supervised by Tony, a Mancunian who has perfect Irish, hates England and looks like a paratrooper if I ever saw one. He seems difficult to approach, but is nevertheless pursued by several women that week.

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Fontaine’s Fables…

Fontaine’s Fables… we used to have to read them for French in school. My dad taught me ‘Le corbeau et le renard’ at an early age and I still know it by heart: Maître Corbeau, sur un arbre perché, tenait en son bec un fromage… Then my teacher started using poetry for punishment. If you’d done something wrong, she made us learn poetry by heart and recite it in front of the class. I remember thinking what a crap teacher she must be not to realise she was making a huge effort in putting us all off literature for good. Silly woman. [ F ]


Talking ’bout French letters