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Skeeal elley voish Juan y Comish, Kirkland Lake, Ontario.
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Another tale from John Comish, Kirkland Lake, Ontario.
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Goll Dys Ny Sleityn
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Going to the Mountains.
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Ayns ny laghyn moghrey va’n Agglish booiagh as arryltagh dy liooar dy goaill r’ee hene ymmodee shenn chliaghtaghyn ass yn chenn Chredjue tra veagh adsyn vondeishagh as ymmydoil r’ee hene.
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In the early days the Church was pleased and willing enough to take to itself many old customs from the old Religion when they were advantageous and useful to itself.
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Ny cliaghtaghyn nagh row vondeishagh r’ee ren ee e cooid share ad y gheyrey as ad y eebyrt magh ass y cheer.
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The customs that weren’t advantageous to itself it did its best to punish and to banish them from the land.
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Ny yeih cha dooar ooilley ny cliaghtaghyn baase kyndagh rish noidys ny Hagglish, agh hie ad fo-halloo as va nane jeu foast er mayrn tra va mee aeg ayns Mannin, agh er lhiam dy vel yn cliaghtey er n’gheddyn baase ayns yn jeih cheead blein t’er n’gholl shaghey neayr’s yn traa shen!
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Nevertheless, not all the customs died because of the hostility of the Church, but they went underground and there was one of them still left when I was young in the Isle of Man, but I think that this custom has died in the ten centuries that have passed since that time!
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Haghyr eh, laa souree dy row, tra va mish nuy ny jeih bleeaney d’eash lurg lhongey y vunlaa, dy row mee shassoo cheusthie jeh dorrys ny hie, er chee goll magh dy chloie, as va my voir as ben naboo, Bnr Kodhere, nyn shassoo cheumooie taggloo eddyr oc hene, ren dorrys y thie noi ain cheu elley jeh’n raad fosley as haink y ven thie magh ass e thie as hass ee er y ghreeish, v’ee ny ben ruy as stoamey as thollee mysh jeih bleeaney as feed d’eash as kiare paitchyn eck.
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It happened, one summer day, when I was nine or ten years of age, after the midday meal, that I was standing inside of the door of the house, about to go out to play, and my mother and a neighbour, Mrs Watterson, were standing outside talking between themselves, the door of the house opposite us on the other side of the road opened and the woman of the house came out of her house and stood on the step, she was a red (headed) woman, good-looking and tall, about thirty years old and had four children.
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Lurg va reggyryn d’ocklyn goll shaghey eddyr oc mychione lhied yn emshir vraew v’ayn dooyrt y ven naboo ain rish y ven ruy, “C’raad v’ou hene jea? Cha naik shin oo goll mygeart boayl erbee?”
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After a few words were passing between them about such fine weather there was, our neighbour woman said to the red (haired) woman, “Where were you yesterday? We didn’t see you going around anywhere?”
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“Oh, hie mee dy valley jea, dy akin my ayr as my voir,” dreggyr y ven aeg ruy, “Cha nel mee er n'akin ad rish tammylt liauyr.”
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“Oh, I went home yesterday, to see my father and my mother,” answered the young red haired woman, “I haven’t seen them for a long time.”
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“Oh! Jagh oo da’n Whallag, eisht?” vrie nyn ven naboo j’ee.
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“Oh! Did you go to the Whallag, then?” asked our neighbour her.
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“Hie, as b’egin dou goll roym dy moghey, kyndagh rish lhied y raad liauyr t’ayn, as cha nel ny paitchyn cliaghtit rish shooyl feer foddey, myr shen b'egin dou shooyl dy moal," as y ven ruy.
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“Yes, and I had to go early, because of it being such a long road, and the children aren’t used to walking very far, so I had to walk slowly,” says the red haired woman.
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Choud’s shoh va ny coraaghyn ocsyn er ve dooghyssagh dy liooar, agh nish honnick mee Benainshtyr Kodhere sheeyney magh e kione rish y ven tessen y traid as va e choraa injil as geyre, beggan erskyn sonnish, myr baillee nagh gluinnagh naboo erbee ny v’ee gra tra dooyrt ee, “Ren oo goll er y clieau tra v’ou ec y Whallag?”
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So far, their voices had been natural enough, but now I saw Mrs Watterson stretching out her head to the woman across the street and her voice was low and sharp, hardly above a whisper, as if she wanted that no any neighbour would hear what she was saying when she said “Did you go on the mountain when you were at the Whallag?”
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“Ta’n Whallag er y clieau!” dreggyr y ven ruy, as va e coraa beggan geyre.
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“The Whallag is on the mountain!” answered the red haired woman, and her voice was a little bit sharp.
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“Ta, ta fys mie aym er shen,” dreggyr Bnr Kodhere, “Agh ren uss goll seose er y clieau?”
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“Yes, I know that well,” answered Mrs Kodhere, “But did you go up on the mountain?”
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Honnick mee dy row eddin y ven aeg ruy jiargaghey as va soilshey ayns ny sooillyn eck tra dreggyr ee “Ren!”
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I saw that the face of the young red haired woman was blushing and there was light in her eyes when she answered “Yes!”
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“Row ny paitchyn mayrt er y clieau?" vrie y daa ven j’ee.
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“Were the children with you on the mountain?” the two women asked her.
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“Cha row ad marym, er yn oyr dy vel eh ro gharroo dauesyn er y clieau,” dreggyr ee, jeeaghyn dy daaney er ny mraane elley.
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“They weren’t with me, because it’s too rough for them on the mountain,” she answered, looking boldly at the other women.
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“Quoi va mayrt eisht mannagh row ny paitchyn mayrt?” vrie y daa ven.
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“Who was with you then, if the children weren’t with you?” asked the two women.
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“Quoi elley veagh marym eisht? Cha nel fer erbee beaghey er y clieau,” as ish.
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“Who else would be with me then? No one lives on the mountain,” she says.
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“Foddee nagh vel, foddee nagh vel, agh b’aashagh dy liooar da fer ennagh dy veeiteil oo er y clieau,’ dooyrt y daa ven.
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“Maybe not, maybe net, but it would be easy enough for someone to meet you on the mountain,” said the two women.
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“Cha veeit mee rish peiagh erbee er y clieau, va mish my lomarcan ayns shen,” as ish.
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“I didn’t meet anyone on the mountain, I was alone there,” she says.
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“Cre hon hie oo seose er y clieau eisht?” vrie y daa ven j’ee.
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“What did you go up on the mountain for then?” the two woman asked her.
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“Hie mee seose er y clieau dy heiy freoghaneyn,” dreggyr ish dy daaney.
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“I went up on the mountain to pick blaeberries,” she answered boldly.
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“Yn chenn leshtal cheddin. Yn chenn leshtal cheddin!” dyllee y daa ven, gearey dy creeoil urree.
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“The same old excuse. The same old excuse!” shouted the two women, laughing heartily at her.
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“As c’red elley ren oo er y clieau chammah as teiy freoghaneyn?”
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“And what else did you do on the mountain as well as pick baleberries?”
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“C’red elley yinnins? Insh dou my sailliu, er y fa nagh vel mee toiggal bun ny focklyn euish” vrie ish.
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“What else would I do? Tell me please, because I don’t know what your words mean” she asked.
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“C'red elley jinnagh ish er y clieau! Oh dy jarroo! C’red elley veagh ee jannoo er y clieau! Teiy freoaghaneyn t’ish gra, yn chenn leshtal cheddin!” dyllee y daa ven, foast gearey dy creeoil urree, “Insh dooin eisht, cre’n fa b’egin dhyt goll seose er y clieau yn chied laa Mee Luanistyn!”
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“What else would she do on the mountain! Oh, indeed! What else would she do on the mountain! Pick blaeberries she says, the same old excuse!” shouted the two women, still laughing heartily at her, “Tell us then, why would you have to go up on the mountain on the first day of August!”
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“Er yn oyr dy vel ny freoaghaneyn appee. Cha row ad appee roish y traa shen,” as y ven ruy.
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“Because the blaeberries are ripe. They weren’t ripe before that time,” said the red haired woman.
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"Ta ny freoaghaneyn appee er y chied laa Mee Luanistyn, as cha row ad rieau appee roish y laa shen. Cha row ad rieau!”
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“The blaeberries are ripe on the first day of August, and they were never ripe before that day. They have never been!”
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“As vel shickyrys ayd nagh ren oo red erbee elley er y clieau eisht?” vrie y daa ven j’ee.
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“And are you sure that you didn’t do anything else on the mountain, then?” the two women asked her.
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“C’red elley veagh aym dy yannoo? Heiy mee ooilley ny freoaghaneyn va mee laccal as hie mee dy valley reesht dys y Whallag,” dreggyr ish, jeeaghyn dy daaney orroo dys yn jerrey, ga dy row yn eddin eck cha ruy as y folt eck!
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“What else would I have to do? I picked all the blaeberries I was wanting and I went home again to the Whallag,” she answered, looking boldly at them to the end, although her face was as red as her hair!
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Cha row fockle elley dy ghra ec y daa ven, as hie mee roym magh ass y thie dy chloie as chelleeragh ren mee jarrood y chooish.
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The two women didn’t have another word to say, and I went out of the house to play and immediately forgot the matter.
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Va mee queig bleeaney jeig d’eash ayns 1902, gynsaghey keird yn ’uinneyder as ayns ny fastyryn beggey raghin noon as noal mygeayrt y valley (Balley Chashtal) cairt-laue aym, creck arran voish thie dy hie.
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I was fifteen years of age in 1902, learning the trade of a baker and in the evenings I would go to and fron around the town (Castletown), with a hand-cart, selling bread from house to house.
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Ny mastey ny thieyn va ymmodee thieyn mooarey as va nane jeu freayll daa inney veyl.
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Amongst the houses there were many big houses and there was one of them keeping two maids.
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Ayns nane jeu va ’neen enmyssit Catreeney Guilley Chreest ass Glion Rushen, ben aeg cheerey stoamey as ish ben coagyrey ’sy thie shen.
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In one of them was a girl called Catreeney (Catriona) Gilchrist (or, Mylchreest) from Glen Rushen, a fine-looking young country girl and she was a cook in that house.
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Laa souree dy row, hug mee my hilley cliaghtagh urree ’sy thie as honnick mee dy row Catreeney ayns cree mie, kyndagh rish red ennagh, mongey as sollyssid ayns ny sooillyn eck, as dooyrt mee “S’mayrey t’ou jiu Chatreeney!”
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One summer day, I went to see her, as I usually did, in the house, and I saw that Catreeney was in good cheer, due to something, a smile and brightness in her eyes, and I said “You’re happy today, Catreeney!”
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“Ta mee dy jarroo, Eoineen. S’leah vees laa feailley ain,” dreggyr ish, mongey orrym.
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“I am indeed, Johnny. Soon we’ll have a holiday,” she answered, smiling at me.
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“Laa feailley? As cre’n laa feailley vees ayn?” vrie mee j’ee.
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“A holiday? And what day will it be?” I asked her.
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“Laa feailley y Vanc, ta fys ayd, Yn Chied Laa Mee Luanastyn,” as ish, as va mongey lhean harrish yn eddin eck.
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“A bank holiday, you know, the first day of August,” says she, and there was a broad smile over her face.
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“Ta fys ayms er shen agh s’beggan ymmyd ta’n laa shen dooys, er y fa dy beeym gobbraghey,” dreggyr mish.
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“I know that, but that day isn’t any use to me, because I’ll be working,” I answered.
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Eisht, dy doaltattym, cheayll mee coraa y daa ven voish laghyn my aegid briaght jeh’n ven stoamey ruy, “Insh dooin, eisht, cre’n fa b’egin dhyt goll seose er y clieau er y chied laa Mee Luanistyn?” focklyn nagh row mee er smooinaghtyn er rish ymmodee bleeantyn!
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Then, suddenly, I heard the voice(s) of the two women from the days of my youth asking the fine-looking red-haired woman, “Tell us, then, why would you have to go up on the mountian on the first day of August?” — words I hadn’t thought about for many years!
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Va fys aym nagh row ny Manninee jannoo mooar jeh’n laa shen, cha row eh dy liooar dy chur lhied y mongey lhean harrish e heddin na’n vaynrys v’urree reggyryn dy laghyn roish Laa Luanistyn, as cha nel foast fys aym cre’n aght haink eh dou dy ghra “Cur foayr dou Chatreeney, my s’aillt.”
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I knew that the Manx weren’t making much of that day, it wasn’t enough to put such a wide smile over her face than the happinys she had a few days before Lammas Day (the first of August), and I still don’t know how it came to me to say “Give (Do) me a favour Catreeney, please,”
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“Kiart dy liooar Eoineen, as cre t’eh?” as ish dy eddrym, mongey orrym.
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“Right enough Johnny, and what is it?” she said casually, smiling at me.
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Yeeagh mee dy geyre urree as dooyrt mee, “Gow mish mayrt tra t’ou goll gys y clieau Laa Luanistyn Chatreeney!”
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I looked sharply at her and I said. “Take me with you when you go to the mountain on Lammas Day Catreeney!”
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Ren yn mongey fioghey dy tappee veih’n eddin eck myr va mee loayrt, as vlake ee orrym myr nagh row ee credjal ny v’ee clashtyn ny sooillyn eck foshlit dy lhean as y beeal eck myrgeddin, as haink ee fy yerrey dy my vriaght.
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The smile faded quickly from her face as I was speaking, and she stared at me as if she wasn’t believing what she was hearing, her eyes open wide and her mouth too, and she came at last to question me.
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“Cre ren oo gra, Eoineen? Cre dooyrt oo?”
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“What did you say, Johnny? What did you say?”
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“Ah! Ta red ennagh ayns ‘goll dys ny sleityn’ lurg ooilley!
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“Ah! There is something in ‘going to the mountains’ after all!
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Cha row Benainshtyr Kodhere as my Vummig boirey er y ’neen stoamey ruy son veg!
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Mrs Watterson and my mum weren’t bothering the good-looking red haired woman for nothing!
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As cre erbee t’eh ta fys mie er ec Catreeney,” dooyrt mee rhym pene.
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And whatever it is, Catreeney knows it well,” I said to myself.
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Yeeagh Catreeney orrym rish tammylt as eisht ghow ee toshiaght dy ghearey, as ren ee garaghtee dy ard as rish traa liauyr, e kione ceaut er ash ny lhiattaghyn eck er creau as ny jeir roie sheese er e lhieckanyn as smooinee mee,
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Catreeney looked at me for a while and then she started to laugh, and she laughed out loud and for a long time, her head thrown back, her cheeks shaking and tears running down on her cheeks and I thought,
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“Ta. Ta fys mie aym cre’n fa t’ou garaghtee, as cha nyrrys edyr! Cre'n ymmyd veagh scollag aeg my lhieds dhyt hene er y clieau mastey’n freoagh!”
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“Yes. I know well why you’re laughing, and no wonder at all! What use would a young lad such as I be to you on the mountain amongst the heather!”
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Fy yerrey, ren ee scuirr as yeeagh ee sheese orrym, agh er aght kenjal, as hug ee minniag dou er my lhieckan, as dooyrt ee,
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She stopped, finally, and she looked down at me, but in a kindly way, and she gave me a pinch on my cheek, and she said,
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“Cha nee yn traa shoh Eoineen! T’ou ro aeg! T’ou ro aeg dy gholl dys ny sleityn! Keayrt ennagh elley, foddee!”
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“Not this time Johnny! You’re too young! You’re too young to go to the mountains! Some other time, maybe!”
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(ry hannaghtyn)
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(to be continued)
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