Irish Language Blog

(le Róislín)

In the last few blogs, we’ve been looking at tuí, tuíodóirí, and tuíodóireacht (thatch, thatcher, thatching).  It’s an interesting topic in this day and age, both as an occupation and as a springboard for further discussion of Irish vocabulary (like “cíor thuí” and “sáiteoir,” or their intriguing English equivalents, “leggatt” and “spurtle”).

But somehow, I doubt that many of our readers here earn their living as tuíodóirí.  Duine ar bith agaibh?  In fact, that does raise an interesting question, how many professional thatchers are there today in Ireland, in Britain, in the Irish Diaspora?  That’s too big a ceist to work into an blag seo, but I’m working up roinnt réamhfhigiúirí for an chéad bhlag eile.

Anyway, back to more mainstream occupations.  There are actually lots of occupation terms that follow a similar pattern to tuí/tuíodóir/tuíodóireacht, where we start with the physical object connected to the trade or activity  and add a suffix to indicate the person or device involved (here, “-óir,” similar to “-or” or “-er” in English).  In many cases, we add a longer suffix (-óireacht) to indicate the activity, often equivalent to the English “gerund.”  Or we could think of “-eacht” as a second suffix, added to the “-óir” agent ending.

Some the terms formed with the “-óir” suffix refer to devices, machines or tools which perform a specific functions.  For example, I hope that the term athpholladóir ([AH-FOL-uh-doh-irzh] reperforator) is limited to a machine, not a person with “athpholladh ([AH-FOL-uh] lit. re-piercing)” as a job.  It sounds rather aontonach as jobs go.  For today’s blog I focused on words where the form ending in “-óir” will be a person’s job.

Some terms might easily apply to a person or a machine, for example, a “cutter” could be “gearrthóir,” as a person’s job, probably in a clothing factory, or it could be “gearrthóir” as a tool that cuts.

Note that while most of these terms involve actual jobs, some are more likely hobbies or avocations, but the pattern is still the same (core subject, person, activity).  I’ve listed 10 terms in that sequence below, with 10.  Below them, you’ll find the English for the occupation to match, and the freagraí for the meaitseáil below that:

1.  adhmad, adhmadóir, adhmadóireacht

2. aer-ghrianghraf, aer-ghrianghrafadóir, aer-ghrianghrafadóireacht

3. ambasáid, ambasadóir, ambasadóireacht

4. bád, bádóir, bádóireacht

5.  ceap, ceapadóir, ceapadóireacht

6.  dreap, dreapadóir, dreapadóireacht

7. garraí, garraíodóir, garraíodóireacht

8.. grianghraf, grianghrafadóir, grianghrafadóireacht

9. seol, seoltóir, seoltóireacht

10. sleá (or “sleán”), sleádóir, sleádóireacht

Now can you match the occupational term with the group above: a) photographer, b) climber, c) sailor, d) ambassador, e) woodworker, f) gardener, g) aerial photographer, h) shaper/inventor/composer (also, these days, “outfielder”), i) turf-cutter,  j) boatman (hmm, these days, I guess we should use “person,” giving us “boatperson” but that could suggest a singular form of “boat people,” which would have an entirely different connotation … boater, perhaps, but then that could be a hat, and there has already been enough mistaking of people for hats, ever since Oliver Sacks classic study has spawned an opera, at least two dramas, an indie pop album, and other pop culture characters and catchphrases )

In some cases, the main noun and agent combination are used but there’s little or no evidence of the “gerund” form, basically due to the nature of the work:

airgead, airgeadóir (cashier)  There is a concept of “cashiering,” of course, but it’s completely different from operating a cash register; “cashiering” in the military sense of “breaking” (dismissal with disgrace) an officer would be “briseadh” in Irish, just like the “briseadh” in “ag briseadh na fuinneoige.”

Another exceptional example is “basadóir” (match-maker or go-between), which is based on the word “ambassador.”  So there’s no root noun, since “ambasáid” wouldn’t really apply.  I also don’t see any evidence of the “-eacht” suffix being added, for “match-making,” although it seems like a likely enough combination.  A variation of this word, “basadaeir,” exists, but again, I don’t seen any evidence of it having a verbal noun, with the “-eacht” ending, despite the seeming usefulness of such a word.   The same is true for yet another word for matchmaker, “babhdóir,” which also seems to lack an “-eacht” form, at least in typical sources.  So what do we do for the verbal noun, the activity of match-making?  Change gear altogether, and use the phrase “déanamh cleamhnais.“   But going further into that would definitely be ábhar blag eile, perhaps touching base with Barry Fitzgerald’s iconic depiction of the role, in The Quiet Man.

Whatever the occupation, you can easily practice the word in short dialogues like the following:

A: Cén post atá agat?

B: Is adhmadóir mé.  (Note the word order: “is,” the verb, first; then the occupation; finally, the subject)

or

A: Cén post a bhí ag Richard Avedon?

B: Grianghrafadóir a bhí ann.

There’s probably an infinite number of job titles out there, and not all of them end in “-óir,” by any means.   Other typical endings for job names are “-eoir” (múinteoir), “-aire” (iascaire), and “-aí” (rúnaí).  But a lot of them do end in “-óir” and so today’s blog has featured a representative sample.   If you didn’t find your job listed, please write in either to add it to the list or to inquire as to what it would be.   SGF, Róislín

Freagraí: 1e) adhmadóir, woodworker; 2g) aer-ghrianghrafadóir, aerial photographer; 3d) ambasadóir, ambassador; 4j) bádóir, boatman; 5h) ceapadóir, shaper/inventor/composer/outfielder; 6b) dreapadóir, climber; 7f) garraíodóir, gardener (NB: the series is based on “garraí,” which means “garden” or “small field,” not “gairdín,” another widely used word for “garden”); 8a) grianghrafadóir, photographer (based on the word “grianghraf,” literally “sun-graph”);  9c) seoltóir, sailor; 10i) sleádóir, turf-cutter (based on “sleán,” a turf-spade or slane, originally spelled “sleaghán” and based on “sleá,” originally spelled “sleagh” and meaning “spear,” ” lance,” or “javelin.”

Nóta maidir le “bádóir”: “Bádóir” can also be the insect “water boatman,” which in and of itself has two meanings.  In the US, it’s an insect of the Corixidae family, which swims right-side-up.  In Ireland and Britain, it’s an insect of the Notonectidae family that swims on its back (a “backswimmer”).  Bhuel, sin ábhar do na feithideolaithe ar an liosta.  What I’d really like to know though, is what do we call a female water-boatman, in English or in Irish.  Bádóir baineann?  Ban-bhádóir?  Water-boatwoman?  Or is there no special term, even for those studying átairgeadh na bhfeithidí seo? 

Nóta  eile maidir le “bádóir”: The Irish for a “boater” (the straw hat) is more specific than the English.  It’s “hata bádóireachta.”  Not that I’m aware of the boater (hat) being particularly prevalent in Ireland, let alone sa Ghaeltacht.  AFAIK, it’s mostly associated with Sasasa (geallta bád agus scoileanna poiblí, is mó), An Afraic Theas, An Astráil, An Nua-Shéalainn, agus, sna Stáit, Ollscoil Princeton (an banna ceoil) agus Ollscoil Pennsylvania (le haghaidh “Hey Day”).

(le Róislín)

ag tuíodóireacht

Before moving away from tuíodóireacht to other topics, I thought it would be interesting to look at the tools used by a tuíodóir, and also to look briefly at the use of díonta tuí outside of Ireland and Britain.

You might have just noticed the phrase “díonta tuí” (thatched roofs).  And you might also remember that the typical phrase for a “thatch-roofed cottage” is “teach beag ceann tuí,” using “ceann” instead of “díon” for roof.  “Díon” (plural: díonta) appears more often when discussing thatched roofs as a roofing style and “ceann tuí” or its plural “cinn tuí” appears more often when describing the roofs of specific cottages.   At any rate, “díon” is the standard word for “roof.”  As you may recall, “ceann” normally means “head.”   Whichever term is used, the array of traditional tools used for tuíodóireacht is quite fascinating. 

Two of the thatching tools caught my eye because their names in English are so unusual, “spurtle” and “leggat.”  As you’ll see below, the Irish terms are more self-explanatory.

spurtle: sáiteoir, pl. sáiteoirí.  In Irish, this literally means a “thruster” or “pusher.”  The word “sáiteoir” is also used in engineering terminology, as in “sáiteoir pilí” (a pile-driver).   A “sáiteoir muc” is, as you may have guessed, a “pigsticker,” and more benignly, a “sáiteoir cuaillí” is a “pole-sinker.”  A “sáiteoir” can also mean a “meddler” or “intruder,” not too different from a “sáiteachán” (nagging person).  They’re all based on the verb “sáigh” (push, press, prod, stab, and, figuratively, nag, etc.).

In the thatched-roof context, the spurtle is an elongated tool with a smallish prong at one end, used for patching.

leggat or leggatt: cíor thuí (lit. a thatch-comb).  “Cíor” is the ordinary word for a “comb” (cíor mhín, fine-toothed comb; cíor gharbh, large-toothed comb; cíor chapaill, a curry-comb, etc.).  “Tuí” is lenited here because it is used as an adjective, and in this case, happens to modify a feminine noun (cíor, comb; an chíor, the comb).   “Cíor” is also a verb, with “cíoradh” as the verbal noun.   It can mean “to comb” literally (capall a chíoradh, to curry a horse; olann a chíoradh, to comb wool), but, like “sáigh,” it has its share of figurative meanings, such as “ag cíoradh ceiste” (examining a question minutely), “ag cíoradh na gcomharsan” (backbiting the neighbors, i.e. combing through their idiosyncrasies), and “ag cíoradh a chéile,” which might sound like some nice co-grooming/bonding activity but actually means “fighting” or “quarrelling.”

Come to think of it, though, nit-picking (piocadh na sneá?) really is a positive activity (as mutual grooming), isn’t it?  At least that’s the case when it’s practiced by babúin, meacaicí, and other animals — by participating in the system of grúmaeireacht shóisialta or comhghrúmaeireacht, you reinforce your place in the community.  As you groom, so shall you be groomed?  You may also get some other benefits best left to the “samhlaíocht” (imagination).

Some of the other thatching tools, with more ordinary names (sa Bhéarla agus sa Ghaeilge) are:

knife: scian [SHKEE-un], pl: sceana [SHKAN-uh]

thatching needle: snáthaid tuíodóireachta, pl: snáthaidí tuíodóireachta.  Even though “snáthaid” [SNAW-hidj] is feminine, there’s no lenition following it because of the d-n-t-l-s rule.  So “tuíodóireachta,” here functioning like an adjective, retains the ordinary initial “t” instead of changing to “th.”   In contrast, consider “snáthaid chléithe” (with lenition of “cléithe“) but “snáthaid dearnála” (with no lenition because of the d-n-t-l-s rule).  ”Snáthaid chléithe” and “snáthaid dearnála” both mean the same thing, a “darning needle.” “Snáthaid” is the general word for “needle” (sewing, etc.), but, always a vocabulary caveat, knitting needles are “bioráin” or “dealgáin.”  “The needle” (sewing, etc.) is the delightful-to-pronounce combo “an tsnáthaid” [un TNAW-hidj].

Thatchers also used knee-protectors.  I haven’t found a specific Irish word for them, but assume it would be “cosantóirí glúine” (protectors of knee).   Eolas ag duine ar bith eile?

scollop, rod, spar, squeeze-loop: scolb, pl: scoilb (as discussed in the previous blog and as in the well-known Irish proverb, “Ní hé lá na gaoithe lá na scolb.”  Why does the proverb say “scolb” and not “scoilb” at the end when the implication is plural (“The windy day is not the day of the thatching spars”)?  Because “scolb” (no “i”) is the genitive plural form for this masculine noun.  “Scolb” serves both as the singular form for the subject or direct object (Tá an scolb déanta as adhmad / The thatching spar is made of wood; Rinne sé scolb as adhmad / He made a thatching spar out of wood) and as the plural form, when showing possession (however abstract), as in “lá na scolb” (once again, “the day of the scollops” or thatching spars).

Another interesting English word connected to thatching is “yolm,” with variations such as “yelm” and “yealm.”  It means an armful or bundle of thatching material (straw, etc.) as laid out for the thatcher to use.   ”Yolm,” is documented from the Midlands of Ireland; the other spellings are mostly local to regions of England.   ”Fainneal” would appear to be the equivalent in Irish, but so far I haven’t found any sources that actually translate a “fainneal” as a “yolm, ” probably because “yolm” is more dialect than standard English (whatever “standard” English is these days!).

In England, the thatcher might work with a “yelmer” who prepared or laid out the material for the thatcher.  I haven’t found any equivalent term for the “yelmer” in Irish, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t one.  Eolas ag duine ar bith? 

Other thatching tools and equipment included deimheas (shears), various types of hooks, and of course, for any roof work, an dréimire (the ladder), perhaps the most useful of all these terms for our general purposes today.

Speaking of dréimirí, that brings us to an ábhairín machnaimh.  Thatched cottages didn’t have gutters as part of the roof, so the hours many suburban homeowners spend perched on dréimirí, ag glanadh na ngáitéar, would be avoided.  And that sounds like a good thing!

If you’re considering a díon tuí in the U.S., or are simply interested in reading more about them, here’s a link to Commonwealth Roofing Corp., located in Louisville, KY, which includes thatched roofs among other styles they offer: http://commonwealthroofing.com/roof-types/thatched-roof/ . I could, of course, list their roof types in English, but where would the dúshlán be then?   Here are some of them, in Irish: slinn, slinn adhmaid, “glas,” miotal, tíl, and “scannán.”  Can you figure them out?  Leid: “scannán” here isn’t translated the way you might expect, based on phrases like “Bord Scannán na hÉireann” (Film Board of Ireland) but instead we have here an older use of the word, dating back to laethe réamhdhigiteacha when films were actually made ar cheallalóid.  Aistriúcháin thíos, sa nóta.

In Commonwealth Roofing’s picture gallery, I found an article about “The Kerry Cottage,” a thatched-roof Irish gift shop in Maplewood (St. Louis), Missouri, which was named after the ancestral homeland of the proprietor Maura Lawlor:  http://www.kerrycottage.com/custom.aspx?id=1.  Suimiúil!

The Kerry Cottage, Maplewood (St. Louis), Missouri

And that opens up the discussion even more broadly.  Are there any thatched-roof cottages or other buildings in your area?  In Éirinn nó taobh amuigh d’Éirinn?  If so, are they part of an open-air museum or a historic site, or are they actual residences?  Ar mhaith leatsa a bheith i do chónaí i dteach beag ceann tuí, preferably one that is “in ascaill an ghleanna” (for full effect).  Nó arbh fhearr leat fanacht i dteach mar sin ar feadh seachtaine, b’fhéidir, ar laethanta saoire?  Either way, it’d be interesting to hear bhur mbarúlacha.  SGF, Róislín

Nóta faoi chineálacha díonta (slinn, slinn adhmaid, “glas,” miotal, tíl, scannán): in order, these are slate, shingle, “green,” metal, tile, and membrane.

(le Róislín) The color “green” is such an interesting topic, I’m reluctant to stop quite yet, even after having written several blogs on it.  Today we’ll start out with some common and some not-so-common examples of “green” in Irish, and end up, out on a limb (verdant, no doubt) discussing “colorless green.”  If that last bit sounds strange, please be patient, or if you’re really champing at the bit, go ahead and read the relevant Wikipedia article (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Colorless_green_ideas_sleep_furiously).

fliosca glas? fliosca uaine?

So, aside from rivers, bagels, and beer, as recently discussed, here are a few more ways in which the two basic words for “green” (uaine, glas) are used:

1) glas, plural: glasa

féar glas [fayr glahss], green grass (remember, this isn’t “fear glas,” which means “green man” — for whatever purposes you wish to apply that concept, presumably discussing “sásair eitilte,” srl.)

geilleagar glas, green economy

An Comhaontas Glas, The Green Party [say: KOH-AYN-tus, the '-mh-' is silent]

breosla glas, green fuel

glasraí, vegetables

2) uaine, plural: uaine (no change)

cóta uaine, a green coat

páipéar uaine, a green paper, as in a “Green Paper” on Education, Communications, Health, etc.  Of course, “páipéar uaine” could also refer to “páipéar orágamaí,” “páipéar ealaíne,” srl.  Only “comhthéacs” will provide the clarification.

Na Tailte Uaine, The Green Lands, referring to Currach Chill Dara, (the Curragh of Kildare, the geographic area); this use of “uaine” comes from the green used in mapping the area and contrasts with “Na Tailte Gorma” (The Blue Lands), marked in blue on the map.

And to wrap up (sort of), here are a few other  interesting points regarding “green,” divided into situations where a) English “green” isn’t “green” in Irish, b) English may be translated at “green” in Irish or may not, and c) English “green” is simply Gaelicized in spelling.  And we’ll end with “colorless green,” as promised.

a) Here are some English words or phrases that contain “green” where the Irish doesn’t:

greenhouse, teach gloine, lit. house of glass (logically enough); of course, if an ordinary house were painted green, we could have “teach uaine” (or “teach glas,” but that would seem less likely)

village green: faiche an bhaile (“faiche” is also used for “St. Stephen’s Green,” which is “Faiche Stiabhna”

putting green: plásóg amais — how interesting that the word for a “hit” in Internet searching, amas, is also used in golf terminology.  “To putt” is “amas a dhéanamh” (lit. to do a putt) and a good putter (person) is “amasaí maith.”

And one of my favorites, “Do you see any green in my eye?”  No, that’s not really discussing dathanna súl.  And it’s not that famous monster, “éad” (jealousy), speaking.  This “green” turns out to be “bog” (soft, tender, foolish) in Irish, in the phrase, “Nach bog a mheasfá mé a bheith?” (i.e. You must think I’m soft in the head, lit. Isn’t it soft that you would think me to be?).  In other words, no, I’m not buying that droichead that you’re offering for sale i mBruiclín.

As for Shakespeare’s “alltán glas-súileach,” the closest basic equivalent in Irish to being “green with envy” uses the word “ite” (eaten), not “green,” as in “Tá Iago ite ag an éad” (i.e. Tá éad mór ar Iago le hOthello agus le Cassio).  Poking around the Internet, I see that at least some other languages also actually say a person is “green” with envy (vert de jalousie, verde di invidia, grön av avund, etc.), but it’s not ringing any bells for me for Irish. Which green would it be?  Alltáin ghlas-súileacha éadmhara ar bith amuigh ansin — an bhfuil a fhios agaibh?  Mínígí sibh féin, mura mhiste libh!

BTW, “glas-súileach” (here “green-eyed”) can also mean “gray-eyed” or “blue-eyed,” or “grayish-blue-eyed.”  I’ve also see “green” eyes described as “uaine,” not surprisingly.  And if you cast a “liathshúil” (gray eye) at someone, it means you’re looking at them enviously.  Is that true, then, no matter cén dath your eyes actually are?  I don’t think the idea that “gray eyes” mean “envy” is as solidly entrenched in the Irish language as being “green with envy” is in English, de réir mo thaithí féin, ar a laghad.  I haven’t heard it much, anyway.  Mh’anam!  A leithéid de cheisteanna ag baint leis seo!  I guess I’d have to be more specific if I were a “déantóir súl gloine” (as featured in http://gizmodo.com/5751321/britains-last-glass-eye-maker), but for now dathanna súl will remain ábhar blag eile.

b) Secondly, here are some cases where a word that actually means “green” may or may not be used:

green room: seomra sosa, lit. break-room OR seomra scíthe, lit. relax-room OR seomra glas, lit. green room (even though it’s péinteáilte)

greenhorn: cábóg (also means a “clodhopper”) OR glas-stócach, lit. “green-lad”

c) And finally, “Greenland” simply has the sound “green” adapted to Irish spelling as “Graon“:

Graonlannach, a Greenlander

An Ghraonlann, lit. (the) Greenland, with “the” triggering lenition (g -> gh), which means we need the voiced velar fricative for correct pronunciation (for tips, see: http://blogs.transparent.com/irish/saying-i-love-you-in-irish/ (subtitled “and minding your voiced velar fricatives”) or http://blogs.transparent.com/irish/treoir-don-treoir-a-guide-to-the-guide-for-pronunciation-cuid-a-2/ .

And there we have it, or at least an “achoimre” {AKH-im-ruh] of the situation.

Well, actually, not quite.  How about “colorless green,” from linguist Noam Chomsky’s semantically perplexing but syntactically accurate catchphrase, “Colorless green ideas sleep furiously.”  So which “green” would that be?   Here are a few translations that I’ve come up with, using “idéanna” instead of the somewhat more common “smaoinimh,” since we’re waxing a bit philosophical here:

Codlaíonn idéanna glasa gan dath go fíochmhar.

Codlaíonn idéanna uaine gan dath go fíochmhar.

Codlaíonn idéanna glasa neamhdhathacha go fíochmhar.

Codlaíonn idéanna uaine neamhdhathacha go fíochmhar.

Which “green” is more appropriate if the idea is “colorless”?  Diabhal a fhios agam!  Sibhse?

Actually there are about a half-dozen more ways to say “furiously,” never mind the “colorless green” concept, but I’m going with what I think would be most straightforward, based on “fíochmhar” (furious).  Some of the others imply a furious pace of movement (de luas mire) or that the colorless green ideas would have legs (!), like horsemen, “ar stealladh chosa in airde.”  That one would really be going out on a limb!

Of course, “colorless” could also mean “dull,” “lackluster,” or “uninteresting,” as in a writing style, in which case we’d have “idéanna glasa leamha,” but I think we should quit while we’re ahead.  Or else revisit the topic lá éigin eile.

I hope that today’s blog was “neamhleamh” (non-lackluster), and that it provided some useful  expressions as well as some more that aren’t on the “bealach buailte” (beaten track).

To sum up, we’ve seen the two basic words for green (glas, uaine) and issued the perennial caveat that not every phrase that includes “green” in English will include “green,” as such, in Irish.  And that we even have to choose between “glas” and “uaine” if the topic is colorlessly green.   Not that I actually chose — I’m still “i mo shuí scartha” on the fence regarding that issue.  SGF, Róislín

Gluais: alltán, monster; cosa in airde, galloping; éad, jealousy, envy;  stealladh, outpouring; suí scartha, straddling

Blaganna eile faoi na dathanna “glas” agus “uaine”:

http://blogs.transparent.com/irish/beoir-uaine-no-glas-no-ceachtar-beer-greenuaine-or-greenglas-or-neither/

http://blogs.transparent.com/irish/beigil-uaine-no-glas-which-type-of-green-for-bagels/

http://blogs.transparent.com/irish/aibhneacha-glas-no-uaine-rivers-greenglas-or-greenuaine/