Irish Language Blog

Tamaillín ó shin (a little while ago, May 6 to be specific), I hinted at a discussion of the term “Jerusalem artichoke” in Irish.  And why not?  It’s suimiúil (interesting) on several counts: “luibheolaíocht” (botany), “logainmníocht” (toponymy), “sanasaíocht” and “bréagshanasaíocht” (etymology and pseudo-etymology), “cócaireacht” (cooking), and “eolas contráilte”(misinformation), to name just a few.

You may recall that the key to understanding “Jerusalem artichoke,” the English name of the plant Helianthus tuberosus, is the Italian word “girasole” (turning toward the sun, heliotropic).  It has nothing to do with Jerusalem, which, if it were part of the phrase, would be “Iarúsailéim.”  So, if we look at the word’s history, its sanasaíocht, or in this case, bréagshanasaíocht, we find that the “girasole” element eventually became Jerusalem, through similarity of sound and the fact that so many plant and animal species are, in fact, named after geographic locations, accurate or not.  Stranger things have been known to happen, soundwise, like “sparrowgrass” for “asparagus,” or toponymically, as in Philadelphia Cream Cheese, which originated in New York, or “Panama hats,” which are traditionally made in Ecuador. 

Whether the plant actually turns to the sun or not, I will not question here, not being a luibheolaí (botanist), but if anyone can vouch for the plant’s héileatrópacht (heliotropism), I’d be interested to hear about it.   Or maybe we should ask the aptly named character, Miss Heliotrope, from the children’s book, The Little White Horse, which is one of my all-time favorites, and to judge from her recent endorsement, one of J. K. Rowling’s childhood favorites also.  Of course, Miss Heliotrope’s name comes from the color of her nose, which matches the color of the heliotrope flower, and not from any sun-turning propensities, but, sin Á.B.E.

Irish, I’m pleased to say, drops the ainm contráilte (misnomer) and simply uses “bliosán gréine” (sun artichoke) for H. tuberosus.  We’re still left with calling this sunflower an “artichoke” but that much seems irreversible.  Apparently its root is edible and tastes something like artichoke, hence the connection.  Can’t say I’ve ever tried it though.  Agus tusa?  Ar ith tú fréamh bliosán gréine riamh? (And yourself?  Ever eat Jerusalem artichoke root?).  If so, I’d be interested to know how it was prepared and I’m sure other readers would be interested too.  That might even help us work on one particularly ambiguous bit of Irish vocabulary, the verb “bruith,” which can mean to boil, bake, broil, grill, or become burnt, usually from the sun, not culinarily, which would typically use the verb “dó” (to burn).  So that’s our cócaireacht connection. 

The globe artichoke (Cynara cardunculus), the plant we normally eat, is actually member of the feochadán (thistle) family.  Thistles and their Celtic connections could easily occupy a full blog, so I’ll save that for blag éigin eile. 

Pronunciation tip:

sanasaíocht: SAHN-uss-ee-ukht; the “kh” here represents the guttural “ch” sound, like German has in “Buch” or “Achtung” and as in the word “Chutzpah.”

bréagshanasaíocht: remember the “bréag” (false) part is a prefix, which softens or “lenites” the initial “s” of sanasaíocht to “sh,” and that means that the original initial “s” is not pronounced at all!  The “sh” sound in Irish is pronounced like an “h,” so here we have BRAYG-HAHN-uss-ee-ukht.  You may have learned that the first syllable is stressed in pronouncing Irish words, which is true, but the rule changes for compound words.  They typically have equal stress on the prefix and the first syllable, which I indicate here with ceannlitreacha (capital letters). 

You can also see this pronunciation rule for prefixes in effect in words like “seanchapall” (old horse), which would be represented as SHAN-KHAHP-ull, with the first two syllables having equal emphasis.  More examples of that later, i mblag eile, if you let me know that “comhfhocail” (compound words) are of particular interest.  Bhur mblagálaí – Róislín

We’ve recently discussed the place names Albain, Éire, An Bhreatain Bheag, Oileán Mhanann, and An Bhriotáin.  Today we’ll turn to Cornwall.  Below you’ll find some examples of how to use the place name and how to indicate that a person or thing is Cornish.  Cornwall is called “Corn na Breataine” (horn of Britain) or sometimes “An Corn” in Irish. 

Cornach, a Cornishman or person.  Like the terms “Éireannach,” “Albanach,” “Breatnach,” “Manannach,” and “Briotánach,” it can be made feminine, “Cornach mná,” but, as I’ve previously mentioned, this form is rarely used.  The feminine form basically means “a woman Cornishman.” 

an Cornach, the Cornishman.  Cornach is also the adjective form.

 Some phrases with the place name “Corn na Breataine” include:

i gCorn na Breataine: in Cornwall

go Corn na Breataine: to Cornwall

muintir Chorn na Breataine: the residents of Cornwall

 In an interesting twist, the mineral cornwallite is “cornuaillít” in Irish, adapting the “-wall” suffix into Irish spelling. 

In a further interesting twist, the two main plant names that in English are designated as pertaining to Cornwall, Cornish heath and Cornish moneywort, lose the Cornish element in their Irish names, which are, respectively, “fraoch gallda” (lit. foreign heather – remember, the perspective is Irish here) and “pingin Dhuibhneach” (lit. penny from Corca Dhuibhne, a region in Co. Kerry).  I’ll let the Cornaigh and the Duibhnigh hash out the plant’s true origins among themselves – our concern here is terminology!

“Cornish hen,” the term I thought would be a “shoo-in” to exemplify Cornishness in popular culture and the lenition of feminine singular adjectives in Irish grammar, turns out to be a “shoo-out.”  The situation’s not straightforward at all.  One might think we’d simply use “cearc” (hen) plus “Chornach” (the feminine form of the adjective).  Mícheart (incorrect)!  First of all, this cearc goes by at least four other names (Cornish game hen, poussin, Rock Cornish hen, and Rock Cornish), thickening the plot considerably.  Secondly, it may refer to a specially bred chicken, slaughtered young and designed for one serving.  It isn’t a game bird and can be male or female, so isn’t always a “hen.”  Furthermore, the French word “poussin,” sometimes equated with “Cornish hen,” has two meanings in English, being the “Cornish game hen” in U.S. English and referring to an even smaller and younger bird in U.K. English.  So aside, from noting that the “Rock” element refers to Plymouth Rock, highlighting Cornish Rock’s American origin, I will respectfully bail out of this attempt to Gaelicize Cornish hens.  One might think that the Cornish hen was an indigenous breed, small in size to adapt to the rugged terrain in which it lived, like Kerry and Dexter cattle or Shetland ponies, ach ní mar sin atá sé (that’s not how it is).  Fascinating in their own right, those animals will be featured i mblag éigin eile. 

So what’s left to exemplify the adjective “Cornach” in context?  Our last place name feature added the tasty element of crêpes, the Breton specialty.  Although I don’t know of any North American bialanna (restaurants) specializing in Cornwall’s famous culinary creation, the Cornish pasty, we can at least offer the Irish name for it, pastae Cornach.  These pastries were stuffed with meat, potatoes and other vegetables.  They have a folded-over crust and were thus distinguished from pióga feola (meat pies).  Their shape supposedly made it safe for miners to eat their lunch, since they couldn’t always clean the coal dust, which might contain arsenic, off their hands.  According to tradition, the miners discarded the corner of the pastry, which they had touched with their fingers, saying it was for the “knockers.”  

 Yes, those are the same supernatural beings who loosely provided the inspiration for Stephen King’s The Tommyknockers.  They would warn miners of possible disasters, at least, one presumes, if you kept them well fed with pasty crusts.  One of these days, I’ll have to check King’s novel, to see if he feeds them properly!

And if you are in North America and want to sample pastaetha Cornacha (that’s the plural), you can find them at special events such as the Pasty Fest in Calumet, Michigan, and special church suppers in Cornish-settled parts of Pennsylvania, such as Bangor and Pen Argyl. 

 This finishes the series of Celtic place names and identities, at least for the modern period.  One of these days we’ll practice saying, “I am an ancient Gaul,” but for the immediate future, it will probably be more practical to work on phrases such as “Gael-Mheiriceánach” (Irish-American) or Gael-Cheanadach (Irish-Canadian) and to introduce such basics as “American” and “Canadian” in their unlenited forms.  Stay tuned!  – Bhur mblagálaí, Róislín

Shortly after St. Patrick’s Day, we welcome in an tEarrach (the Spring). Or do we?

We may be accustomed to thinking of March 20^th or 21^st as the beginning of Spring, but there is actually a lot of controversy in English as to whether Spring starts on the first of the month or on the eacaineacht (equinox). Then there’s the question as to which mí (month) anyway! Some say February, March, and April, and others say March, April, May!

Regardless of the English concept, the traditional Spring season in Ireland consists of Feabhra, Márta, and Aibreán, which resemble their English counterparts in spelling, as do most of the other months. Three prominent exceptions are the ones derived from the ancient Celtic calendar: mí na Bealtaine, mí Lúnasa and mí na Samhna. You might know these from their significance in Celtic mythology – May, August, and November. The first day of each of these months was a major holiday, Lá Bealtaine, Lá Lúnasa, and an tSamhain. Celtic New Year’s Eve was celebrated on Oíche Shamhna (the eve of November, i.e. October 31^st, known now in English as Halloween).

You might wonder what happened to the fourth “quarter day,” February 1^st. The pre-Christian festival, known as Imbolc in Old Irish, became Lá Fhéile Bríde (St. Bridget’s Day) following the Christianization of Ireland. It was linked with fertility and abundance. It marked the first day of Spring and a least a small amount of seeds were sown that day to ensure a good harvest.

So back to an tEarrach – it started on February 1^st, Celticly speaking! As the different séasúir (seasons) come up, we’ll be discussing them sa bhlag seo (in this blog). But meanwhile, we have another significant “first day” around the corner, Lá na nAmadán (literally, the Day of the Fools). So stay tuned for the April Fool’s Day blog, when we’ll learn the terminology for male fools, female fools, soft fools, open-mouthed fools, and perhaps a few others.

A few grammar points for today’s terms, concerning the notorious tuiseal ginideach (genitive case). We have several examples i mblag an lae inniu (in today’s blog). The phrases mí na Bealtaine and mí na Samhna use the word “na” (of the) in the middle because both of the names of the month are feminine and in the genitive case. The genitive case typically shows possession, as in phrases like ”hata an fhir” (the hat of the man). where “an fhir” is the genitive form of “an fear” (the man). The genitive case may be used even when there’s no actual possession or ownership, as in phrases like “mí na Samhna” (the month of an tSamhain).

The phrase Lá na nAmadán also uses “na” (of the) in the middle, but here it’s with a masculine plural noun. It causes an “n” to be inserted before nouns beginning with vowels, and, like the “t” prefix discussed a previous blog, it stays in the lower case, even in titles or proper nouns.

Whether or not an tEarrach does bring us aer cumhra (balmy air) and aimsir earrachúil (springlike weather), let’s hope go mbeidh sé go deas go dtí an chéad bhlag eile (that it will be nice until the next blog).

Bhur mblagálaí, Róislín