TALES FROM THURLES: Memories of a Gaeltacht holiday in Cuil Aodha

Back in the early sixties a kind and decent Christian Brother at Thurles CBS called an Brathair O Cathain informed me one day in class in fifth year that I had been awarded a scholarship for a month-long holiday in the West Cork Gaeltacht of Cuil Aodha.

Apart from a couple of camping holidays with the Boy Scouts, it was my first real holiday as an independent teenager in an era when a holiday was a luxury mainly for the privileged classes.

Sadly, I have known many folks who have never had a holiday all their lives.

An Brathair O Cathain, who was my Irish teacher commanded the respect of all us fifth years as he was the Trainer/Bainisteoir of the school Harty Cup and Dean Ryan Cup hurling teams.

He was also very keen on the Irish language. And he was a great Irish teacher, with a great gra and flair for his vocation I had always enjoyed reading Irish books, even in Primary School, and the lyrical ring to such words as feirini (presents), leac oighear (ice), uachtar reoite(ice cream), An Geimhreadh (Winter), Mi na Nollag (December) and the names of eanlaith (birds)such as an spideog, and ainmhithe na feirme (farm animals)such as an gabhar (the goat) fascinated me.

Accompanied as they were by the beautiful, colourful illustrations, such words were to me only magic and the keys to a magical universe of the imagination.

It always saddens me in today’s ultra-materialistic world to hear an Gaeilge spoken of in derogatory terms by some Irish people.

Many years ago, in exile in Wimbledon, in London, I woke up at four o‘clock one morning, a little depressed for some unknown reason and promptly wrote down my feelings in verse in Irish.

Why I wrote as Gaeilge I do not know but deep down in my psyche the first official language of the nation under the Constitution was firmly rooted.

My late mother, Bridie, was an Irish speaker, and she also loved ceili dancing.

I believe somewhere in my family background there was a Tomas Dubh O Riain who was a hedge schoolmaster in another century.

He was also a poet. So, an Brathair O Cathain did not have to force an Gaeilge on me I really loved the language, which has passion and power that the English language never had for me to the same extent.

With beannachtai (blessings) and Mallachtai (curses) you can give a powerful opinion of those whom you favour or disfavour respectively.

So, I headed off to Cul Aodha in beautiful West Cork for the month of July in 1961.

I was eager to hear the language spoken by the men and women of historic West Cork whose famous Flying Columns under General Tom Barry put manners on the Black and Tans.

I and three other boys stayed with a local family on a hillside overlooking a meandering river and I can truly say that, though we got up to the odd bit of harmless divilment, we argued and debated and danced two hand reels and high caul caps and sixteen hand reels with the cailini oga entirely as Gaeilge, as requested.

We were on our honour to do so and, believe it or not, but honour meant something in those days.

Our gracious and most hospitable bean a ti could not do enough for us and we were fed to perfection and afforded every comfort.

Some of us did write home for the odd postal order to purchase a packet of cigarettes or the occasional bar of chocolate and bottle of lemonade. And lads were quick to share out. But we thought we were living the life of Reilly, and, we surely were.

An rud is annamh is iontach (What’s seldom is wonderful). In the austerity of another era.

I felt grateful to an Brathair O Cathain for his being responsible for this wonderful holiday, which saw myself enjoy the breathtaking beauty of West Cork and the generosity and good humour and Gaeilge binn of its decent, sound, gentle people.

We even enjoyed movies in a cinema in a house where the Travelling Cinema Man set up a huge projector in.

Or was that in Baile Mhuirne, not far from Cul Aodha and near St Gobnnait’s Well and Sean O Riada country, where we attended Aifreann Gaelach(Mass in Irish). The holiday organisers held a sean fhocal competition and there were prizes for those who collected the most-old Gaelic sayings or Seanfhocail from the local people.

I felt I should do my almighty best for Thurles CBS and the blue and gold of Tipperary and at least put it up to the Rebels of Cork.

I was delighted to win a prize after collecting three hundred sean fhocla.

I wish I had them today. I know my former teacher and friend at Presentation Convent, in Thurles, the late Sister Liguori, had a mighty collection of these literary gems.

And In Cul Aodha, I felt this win was the least I could do for the man who had been responsible for myenjoyment of one of the happiest, months of my life.

And I also experienced an innocent teenage romance as Gaeilge. A Gaelgoir friend once joked that unless you fall in love as Gaeilge or address a court in Irish An Gaeilge won’t be saved.

Many years later I became Secretary of Craobh Phiarais Mac Anna of Conradh na Gaeilge in Thurles and I became acquainted with Gaelgoiri from Kerry and Limerick.

And I discovered that only a few miles up the road from Thurles, in Moycarkey/Borris, there were people whostill spoke Gaeilge na Rinne, the Irish spoken in Ring near Dungarvan, County Waterford.

So, not so long ago there was a mini Gaeltacht near Thurles.

An old newspaperman and former Old IRA and Free State Army Officer once lamented to me that, though he spoke fluent French, he deeply regretted he could not speak Irish.

He would have loved to be able todo so to greater understand a proud and scholarly Gaelic Literary tradition Ait an mac e an saol. (a strange old world).

Once I broke the rialacha (rules) and thumbed into Macroom from Cul Aodha in search of adventure, cailini deasa or cigarettes. And not necessarily in that order. I thumbed this dark vehicle which looked like a limousine to me at the time. On arrival in Macroom, the driver shouted at me:

“Hey, boy! Where’s me fare?” This is a taxi, you know!”

Being more or less broke, and as I saw the taxi man gesturing grimly towards the old and forbidding-looking Macroom Jail in the distance, I told him I was only a student on holiday to improve my Irish.

But he laughed heartily and said, to my great relief:

“Arra, I’m only having you on, boy, Sure I‘m just on my way to the airport. Failte go Iarthar Corcai!”