Learning Irish: Everyone else was chatting blissfully. Only me and my partner were locked in uneasy silence

For the last couple of summers I’ve been spending time in Glencolmcille learning Irish at a week-long summer course run by Oideas Gael. It’s not just about improving my language skills. It’s about the quiet peace of the Glen, the dramatic cliffs, the ocean views, and the stunningly isolated beaches.

I’ve attended the courses three times now, although I still remember the first year when I made the classic mistake of overestimating my own ability. I deluded myself into believing that I might be able for the Advanced Course.

So when at the initial assembly those who felt they were able for the Higher Level were asked to put up their hands, I did not hesitate.

I didn’t last long.

Michael Harding: The magpies and I could both do with shedding a bit of weight

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The view from Fanad Lighthouse fills us with a sense of our own mortality

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Michael Harding: A funeral reminds me of the sweetness of silence, when conversation was more than just chatter

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Michael Harding: Contrary to popular opinion, it’s all go in Leitrim all the time

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On the first morning, the conversation in class centred around where people lived. The teacher gave out a vocabulary of phrases pertaining to various forms of habitation; in cities, in the countryside, in rented houses or apartments. We familiarised ourselves with the phrases and then were paired into groups of twos or threes to practise discussion.

I was finding the interrogation tedious. And my partner was in mounting despair at my inability to say anything interesting about where I lived

When it came to my turn, my partner asked me, “as Gaeilge,” where I lived.

I replied in Irish.

“I live in a remote place.”

Continuing in Irish, she asked;

“Are there any shops near you?”

“No,” I replied, “There are no shops.”

“Is there a pharmacy in the vicinity?” she persisted.

[ I glanced again at the old man on the balcony; but he had disappeared. It felt like he had vanished ]

I had already told her there were no shops. But this was an exercise so I suppose some repetition was inevitable.

“No,” I said, “There is no pharmacy in my mountains.”

“Is there a school nearby?” she inquired.

“No.”

“Does the bus stop outside your door?”

I was finding the interrogation tedious. And my partner was in mounting despair at my inability to say anything interesting about where I lived.

She on the other hand lived in a town with shops, supermarkets, two cinemas and a leisure centre; she had plenty to talk about.

“I love where I live,” I declared defensively; “my heart is inside it.”

As if that would suffice for my lack of detail.

But her questions became more blunt.

“Do you have any neighbours?” she wondered.

“Certainly I do,” says I. “In truth, my neighbour painted my chimney.”

That confused her. So I tried my best to recount the following anecdote in simple Irish sentences.

My neighbour is a painter. He was on my roof painting my chimney. The sun was shining.

“The light bounces off the white paint,” said the painter, “and it’s hurting my eyes.”

“Any chance,” says I, “that you could get rid of that satellite dish?” – meaning the rusty saucer that had been dangling from the gable for a decade.

“No bother,” he said.

“Do you want me to paint the roof as well?” he asked.

I didn’t know that roof tiles could be painted.

“There’s a black paint called Colourtrend,” he explained. “It’s great for black tiles. Freshens them up.”

But just imagine how I shaped that story into broken Irish with my limited vocabulary – and pity my poor bewildered partner!

“Why were you painting the roof black with your neighbour’s paint?” she wondered, in Irish. And replying, in Irish, I mixed up the word for tiles with an old Gaelic word for flies.

[ In the charity shop, I feared that the word ‘dicky-bow’ might be offensive ]

“Because the flies were already black,” I declared. “But now the flies are beautiful.”

Everyone else in the class was chatting blissfully “as Gaeilge”. Only me and my partner were locked in uneasy silence. Eventually I tried another story to affirm that I lived in an interesting place.

He only had a straw head. He didn’t have flies. The flies might have saved him. That’s why I paint them black

“I had a neighbour once,” says I, “who had no electricity in the house because he was afraid it might cause a fire. Every night he lifted a burning hot coal with a tongs and guided himself up the stairs to bed, and then quenched the coal in a chamber pot.”

Her jaw dropped.

“Did he die in the chamber pot?” she wondered.

“No, the coal died in the chamber pot,” I said.

“What happened him?” she asked.

“Well he died eventually,” I said. “After a thousand years. Because one night the house went on fire, and he was lost.”

I wanted to say that the roof was thatched with straw and one night it caught fire from the dead coal in the chamber pot.

[ Michael Harding: I always hoped I could say I belonged somewhere, but my father’s restlessness nestled in me for a long time ]

But instead I may have said:

“He only had a straw head. He didn’t have flies. The flies might have saved him. That’s why I paint them black.”

She stared at me without smiling.

This year I might just stick with the Beginners’ Class.