Donald's Gaelic Pages

I came into the Gaelic-speaking world when my mother decided that sixteen pounds was far too much to be carrying around in mid-summer. So, on one fine fourth of July I followed my brother into the pure island air of Harris in the Outer Hebrides, exactly three years after he had blazed the trail. Three more brothers followed after that, and when my mother finally accepted the fact that she was unable to produce a female of the species she gave up and convinced my father to move to the mainland.

In that three year period between sons one and two, our community witnessed important changes in the world of Gaelic, but while the renaissance that began then was nothing compared to what we are experiencing now, it was consoling to see that children were no longer beaten if they were caught speaking Gaelic in the school yard. I escaped that; my brother did not.

I really don't remember much about learning Gaelic then for it was hard enough to learn English, laboriously translating our thoughts, and even more laboriously committing them to paper. It would be another quarter century before we would begin to take Gaelic seriously, our self-righteous smugness shattered by the onslaught of new words forced upon our ancient language, words that had to be accommodated - if Gaelic was to survive.

This was not going to be easy, for we had already given up almost every place name in Scotland to those who couldn't be bothered to learn how to say them in Gaelic.