Tomás Ó Criomhthain, An tOileánach, ed. Seán Ó Coileáin (Baile Átha Cliath, 2002), pp. 3-4
Ó Dhún Chaoin treabhchas m’athar; phós sé insan Oileán so. Ó Pharóiste Fionntrá treabhchas mo mháthar. Do bhíodar araon toilteanach le chéile. Ní raibh an galar orthu do bhíonn ar a thuilleadh acu go gcaitar maide do thabhairt do chuid mhaith acu.
Do chuireadar chúthu i mbothán bhocht ag dul i leith sealgaireacht na farraige, agus do bhí píosa talún acu, agus iad araon go dianmhaith chuin earraíocht do bhaint as mhuir agus thalamh. Ní raibh aon asal insan Oileán so an t-am so ach cléibheanna ar dhrom gach fir agus mná, ’sé sin, aon bhean nár pheata í nó rógaire gurbh fhearr léi gorta ná obair.
Sealgaire iontach dob ea m’athair, agus an-fhear oibre. Saor cloiche agus captaein báid dob ea é, agus fear cliste chuin gach gnótha. Is mó gnó do dheineadh sé do dhaoinibh eile, mar ná raibh ina bhformhor san am úd ach mar ’bheadh scata asal ar pháirc.
Ana-bhliain éisc dob ea an bhliain seo agus an cóta glas ormsa, agus gan me róshaor ar bhreacshúil do thabhairt ar bhrollach mo mháthar. Dar liom gur cheart dom a bheith ag siolpaireacht na gcíní fós; is dócha nách mó ná bliain do bhíos fágtha iad an uair seo.
Bhí m’athair ag dul ag iascach an mhaidean so. Bhí cruach bhreá mhóna acu isteach insa mbliain, agus tuairisc acu go raibh sí ar fad goidtithe ó inné roimis sin. Dúirt sé lem mháthair saothar éigin do dhéanamh ar chuid don mhóin do thabhairt abhaile – go raibh an lá breá.
Do bhuail sí a cliabh ar a drom, agus do bhí sé cléibheanna insa bhaile aici sarar mhúscail an peata as a shuan. Dob éigean dom mháthair staonadh don mhóin, agus cluas do thabhairt don pheata do bhí tar éis múscailt as a chodladh. Cuireadh an cóta glas orm, tugadh gráinseáil le n-ithe dhom, agus an uair ba cheart dom a bheith sásta ní rabhas.
Do chuir mo mháthair an chliabh i bhfearas chuin tabhairt fén gcnoc arís, ach do bhíos ag faire ina diaidh, agus dob éigean di me a scaoileadh in aonacht léi, leis an sórt lamhancáin siúil do bhí agam. Ní rófhada do bhíos an t-am go bhfuaireas cortha, agus dob éigean di me a bhualadh isteach ’on chléibh agus me a thabhairt léi i gcoinnibh an chnoic. Chuir sí cúpla mallacht im dhiaidh, rud nár locht uirthi.
An uair do líon sí an chliabh don mhóin, do bhagair sí orm a bheith a bogadh liom síos le fánaidh, ach ba dhúire ag teacht me ná ag dul. Is cuimhin liom go maith gur chuir sí barra na coise fúm, agus gur thóg ó thalamh me, agus chuir achar breá ó bhaile me, agus dúirt:
‘Beagán rí ná rath’ ort!’ ar sise; ‘maran breá atá an lá loitithe agat orm.’
Dob éigean di me a thabhairt léi ar a brollach abhaile, agus an chliabh comh lán agus do bhí sí riamh.
Do chaith sí isteach ar an urlár me, agus dúirt le Máire me a chur isteach fé bhéal cléibhe, agus ligeant dom maireachtaint nó bás d’fháil. Dá mhéid na crosa do dheineas, do thug sí fiche cliabh mhóna léi an lá san. Bhí an chruach mhór mhóna age baile fé Dhomhnach aici. Do bhí chúig mhíle éisc agem athair an tseachtain sin. Bhíodh mo mháthair ag insint na nithe seo don seanachailligh bhéal doiris.
Tomás Ó Crohan, The Islandman, translated by Robin Flower (Dublin, 1937; Oxford, 1951; reprt. 1979), pp. 2-4. The translation has been adapted in consultation with Seán Ó Coileáin.
My father’s kin were from Dunquin. He married into this Island. My mother’s people were from Ventry. They were both willing to take one another. They weren’t affected by the same disease that affects more of them: that a stick has to be taken to a good many of them.
They settled down in a small cabin to live on the produce of the sea, and they had a bit of land; and both of them were well gifted to make the best profit out of sea and land. There weren’t any asses in the Island at this time, but creels on the back of every man and woman, that is, any woman that wasn’t a pet or a rogue who would rather starve than work.
My father was a wonderful fisherman and a great man for work. He was a stonemason and boat’s captain, and handy at every trade. He often did a hand’s turn for other people, for in those days most of them were little better than a drove of asses in a field.
It was a great year for fish, that year when I wore the grey petticoat and was still throwing an odd glance now and again at my mother’s breast, for I thought that I ought to be sucking the breasts still; I probably hadn’t left them for more than a year at this time.’
My father was going fishing this particular morning. They had a fine rick of turf on the hill, well on in the year, and they had been told that it had all been stolen since the day before. He told my mother to make some effort to bring some of the turf home—that the day was fine.
She threw her creel on her back, and she had brought back six creels of turf before the pet woke out of his slumber. My mother had to leave the turf alone then and lend an ear to the pet now that he had awoken from his sleep. She dressed me in the grey petticoat, gave me a bite to eat, and when I ought to have been contented, I wasn’t.
My mother set the creel strait to make for the hill again, but I had my eye on her and she had to let me go along with her, with the sort of crawling on all fours that I had. It wasn’t too long before I got tired, and she was forced to throw me into the creel and carry me up the hill. She threw a couple of curses after me, and I don’t blame her.
When she had filled up the creel with the turf, she signed to me to be making my way down hill, but I was more obstinate coming back than going out. I remember well that she put the toe of her foot under me and lifted me clear off the ground and sent me flying a good distance, and said:
‘Bad cess to you, you’ve made a fine mess of the day on me.’
She had to bring me home with her on her chest, with the creel at her back as full as it had ever been.
She threw me in on the floor and told Maura to shove me under a creel and leave me there to live or die. For all the tricks I played, she brought down twenty creels of turf that day. By Sunday she had the whole great rick of turf safely housed. My father got five thousand fish that week. My mother used to be telling these tales to the old hag next door.
