English

When I go to Uist, a Gaelic heartland, I see and hear songs and stories in the landscape. I hear them by lochs, on the machair, by the shore. I see poets and singers, who passed away many years ago. I hear stories about wells, fairies, weather, superstition, seals who have come from Scandinavian royalty or pirate sailors whose ships lie wrecked beneath the water. I hear stories of waterhorses. Witches, wine and whisky. Love, loss, politics, war, land raids, emigration.

Songs and story silently light up the landscape around me. The names of the places explain a lot: Sloc a’ Choire, Fèith na Fala, Am Baile Sear, Cladh Chomhghainn, Rubha nam Marbh.

And where I live now? I was struck at the time by how I did not have that same connection to landscape in Inverness. I heard Gaelic placenames everyday… Inbhir Nis (Inverness), A’ Mhanachainn (Beauly), Am Blàr Dubh (Muir of Ord), Marc-Innis (Markinch), Clach na h-Àirigh (Clachnaharry). I knew some snippets of song and story, but they seemed somewhat distant. Local connection to all of this has been erased to a large degree with the loss of the language. But it still exists.

My reaction to this was to engage with projects locally, the first being a cultural mapping project with creative ethnologist Raghnaid Sandilands. We used stories, poetry and song as landmarks, placing Gaelic on the map, and set older songs (whose melodies had been lost) to music. This led to the production of an area map that privileged different things, and a musical performance to a local audience.

With the decline of a native language in an area in which it has existed for a thousand years, there comes with it a growing disconnect with the landscape itself. When the traditional drove road, Carn na h-Innseig, is renamed Garbole Road which fits more neatly on a road sign, or when Beinn a’ Bhàthaich Àrd agus Loch Dùn Seilcheig become ‘Ben A Vaikard’ and ‘Loch Duntulchaig’ on people’s lips, their meaning is lost, and by default, their story is lost. It is subtle cultural erosion, like the sea eroding the Hebridean machair, constantly under threat.

Craig Mackay, the celebrated photographer from Brora, once told me, ‘I don’t speak Gaelic but I feel like I think it fluently.’ Ali Smith, the acclaimed writer long listed for the Man Booker prize, recently described Gaelic as ‘the language I have in my bones, but which I happen myself not to speak.’

Whether you have been raised with the language in your marrow and bones, or whether you have chosen to connect with it, our landscape and the stories it holds through the Gaelic language is there for everyone.

Gàidhlig

Nuair a thèid mise a dh’Uibhist, sgìre aig cridhe na Gàidhlig, chì mi agus cluinnidh mi òrain agus stòiridhean san dreach-tìre. Cluinnidh mi iad sna lochan, air a’ mhachaire, aig a’ chladach. Chì mi bàird agus seinneadairean a chaochail o chionn iomadh bliadhna. Cluinnidh mi rannan mu thobraichean, mu shithichean, mu aimsir, mu gheasachd, mu ròin a bhoineadh do theaghlach rìoghail Lochlannach no mu chreachadairean mara ’s na bàtaichean a bh’ aca ann an doimhneachd na mara. Cluinnidh mi òrain mu eich-uisge, bana-bhuidsichean, fìon is uisge-beatha. Gaol, call, poilitigs, cogadh, creach fearainn, eilthireachd.

Soillsichidh òrain agus stòiridhean gu socair an dreach-tìre mun cuairt orm. Tha na h-ainmean àite a’ mìneachadh tòrr: Sloc a’ Choire, Fèith na Fala, Am Baile Sear, Cladh Chomhghainn, Rubha nam Marbh.

Agus far a bheil mi a’ fuireach an-diugh? Bhuail e orm nach eil an aon cheangal agam ann an Inbhir Nis. Chluinninn ainmean àite Gàidhlig a h-uile latha… Inbhir Nis, A’ Mhanachainn, Am Blàr Dubh, Marc-Innis, Clach na h-Àirigh. B’ aithne dhomh criomagan de dh’òrain is stòiridhean na sgìre, ach bha iad fad às air dòigh air choreigin. Tro chall cànain, tha an ceangal ionadail air a bhith air a dhubhadh às gu ìre mhòir. Ach, tha an ceangal fhathast ann.

B’ e an fhreagairt a bh’ agam fhìn, eòlas a chur air pròiseactan le brìgh sa choimhearsnachd. B’ e pròiseact clàraidh cultarach a bh’ ann an aon dhiubh sin leis an sgrìobhadair is eòlaiche-cinnidh cruthachail Raghnaid Sandilands. Chleachd sinn stòiridhean, uirsgeulan, bàrdachd agus òrain mar chomharrran-iùil, chuir sinn ainmean Gàidhlig air a’ mhapa, agus chuir sinn ceòl ri cuid de sheann òrain far nach robh sgeul air na seann fhuinn. Às a sin thàinig “ath-chruthachadh” de mhapa Srath Narainn agus taisbeanadh do mhuinntir an àite de chuid dhen stuth.

Nuair a thèid cànan dùthchasach bhuaithe ann an sgìre sa bheil i air a bhith beò fad mìle bliadhna, thig an ceangal leis an tìr mu sgaoil an cois sin. Nuair a tha rathad nan dròbhairean, Càrn na h-Innseig, air ainmeachadh as ùr mar Garbole Road, no Beinn a’ Bhathaich Àrd agus Loch Dùn Seilcheig a dol gu ‘Ben A Vaikard’ agus ‘Loch Duntulchaig’ air bilean an t-sluaigh, tha a’ chiall aca air chall agus tha an stòiridh aca air chall. ’S e cnàmhadh cultarach gun fhiosta a tha seo, direach mar a bhios a’ mhuir a’ cnàmh machraichean nan Eileanan Siar, an-còmhnaidh fo chunnart.

Thuirt Craig MacAoidh, an dealbhadair ainmeil à Brùra, rium uaireigin ‘I don’t speak Gaelic but I feel like I think it fluently.’ Thuirt Ali Smith, an sgrìobhadair cliùiteach à Inbhir Nis, mun Ghàidhlig: ‘It’s the language I have in my bones, but which I happen myself not to speak.’ Ge brith an deach do thogail leis a’ chànan na do smior ’s na do chnàmhan, no an do roghnaich thu ceangal a dhèanamh leatha, tha an tìr agus an dualchas a tha i giùlan tro Ghàidhlig ann dhan a h-uile duine.