Dòigh-beatha san taigh-tasgaidh, no air an tràigh?

Chan eil fhios agam mas toil leibhse e, ach ’s toil leamsa gu mòr tadhal air taighean-tasgaidh eachdraidh ionadail, gu h-àraidh feadhainn ‘open-air’ le seann taighean agus togalaichean tuathanachais no iasgaich làn stuth bho àm ar sinn-seanairean.

Uill, bha mi a’ leughadh cruinneachdh bàrdachd ùr Gàidhlig (le taic eadar-theangachaidh gu Beurla leis na bàird fhèin) o chionn ghoirid, agus thachair mi air dàn uabhasach druidhteach le Màiri NicGumeraid, An Taigh-tasgaidh ’s an Leabhar*, a rinn mi smaoineachadh air dòigh eadar-dhealaichte mun chuspair seo.

 

San dàn tha i a’ bruidhinn mu ciamar a bhiodh na seann daoine a’ tilgeil a-mach uidheam thradiseanta gus rudan nas ùire, nas fhasanta fhaighinn, ’s dòch’ a chionn ’s gun robh iad nas spaideile no dìreach nas practaigiche. Feumaidh sinne a dhol dhan taigh-tasgaidh gus uidheam mar sin fhaicinn an latha an-diugh, ged a tha cuimhne againn fhathast air na dearbh rudan sin ann an sabhalan no seadaichean no gàrraidhean anns na bailtean againn fhìn is sinne nar clann. 

 ‘Feumaidh mi dhol chun taigh-teasgaidh
dh’fhaicinn uidheaman m’ eachdraidh
a shad mo sheanmhair às,
a shuath mo sheanair
le bhoisean cnapach sgìth…’

Agus ’s e sinne, an ginealach aig a bheil cuimhne fhathast air dòigh-beatha cho diofraichte ar seanairean, a bhios a’ riochdachadh an ceangal – gu math lag – eadar an dà shaoghal: dè cho trice a bhios sinn a’ smaoineachadh air na rudan seo, dè cho soilleir a bhios ar cuimhne? Feumaidh sinn  ‘dhol chun taigh-tasgaidh

….mus tèid an leth-sealladh
den leth-sgeul
a th’ agam
a dhìth
leis an sguab th’ air cùl mo shàil. ’

 
Fàgaidh ‘an leth-sgeul’ sinn brònach, ach chan eil sinn nar aonar san t-suicheachadh seo. Bha mi a’ bruidhinn mu a dheidhinn le caraid Gearmailteach a thogadh air an dùthaich agus thuirt esan (sa Ghàidhlig, mar a thachair) :

‘Tha deagh chuimhne agam air nuair a shad mo sheanair fhèin a h-uile sìon tradaiseanta às an taigh.
Dh’fhalbh an airneis, na seann uinneagan is dorsan ach cuideachd a’ bhàrdachad againn agus na h-òrain.’

Nochdaidh am beachd mu dheireadh sin anns an dàn cuideachd; tha feum aig a’ bhàrd an latha an-dùigh air ‘leabhar ..

… fa chomair an àm
tha cànan an cunnart dhol balbh.
Feumaidh mi leabhar a dh’innseas dhomh sgeul
nach eil idir air bilean an t-sluaigh..’

Tha sinn a’ gluasad nas fhaide is nas fhaide air falbh bhon eachdraidh againn fhìn, an e uidheam no Gàidhlig (no Scots, no dualchainnt Gearmailteach, no teanga tùsanach Astràilianach) a th’ ann.

Tha cuimhne agam nuair a bha mi òg an an Bail’ A’ Chnuic ciamar a chaidh seann airneis, uidheam bhriste, sgudal-taighe, treallaich sam bith a thilgeil  sios air an tràigh, no fiù ’s air a mhuir fhèin. Nuair a bhàsaich mo sheanmhair chaidh an taigh fhalamhadh agus a h-uile rud cha mhòr a chur dhan chladach. Fiù ’s mar nighean bheag bha ùidh mhòr agam air eachdraidh agus seann stuth san fhairsaingeachd agus tha fios agam ciamar a ghuil mi airson a h-uile nì – prìseil ach dhomhsa – air chall.

Nuair a bheir mi sùil air ais, saoilidh mi a-nis gur e seòrsa cearcaill nàdarraich a bh’ ann, ’s dòcha. Gheibheadh na h-iasgairean a h-uile rud airson am beatha bhon mhuir, agus bheireadh iad a h-uile rud air ais.

Tha sinn nas sgiobalta na làithean seo; tha sinn air ar cùl a chur ris a’ mhuir. Thèid seann uidheam a chur dhan tasgan sgudail – no, ma bhios sinn fòrtanach, dhan taigh-taisgaidh.

 ***

If you’re like me, you’ll enjoy all these open-air local history museums with old houses and sheds stuffed with furniture and farming and fishing equipment from our grandparents’ time. But I came across a poem recently, The Museum and the Book*, by Lewis poet Mairi Montgomery, which made me look at these with different eyes. There she talks about how the old folk just threw everything old and traditional out, to be replaced with modern, maybe ‘smarter’ or just more practical equivalents. We have to go to museums now

‘to see the tools of my history
my grandmother threw out
my grandfather stroked
with his tired knobbly hands..’

We today are the last, weak link to this way of life, with our fading memories – we need to pass them on quickly

‘ before the half-sight
of the half-story
I have
Is swept
Away by the brush at my heels.’

I discovered that it’s the same story elsewhere, A Gaelic-speaking friend who grew up in rural Germany told me his grandparents replaced and threw out all their old furniture, even windows and doors, for modern replacements as soon as they could – and threw out their old poetry and songs along with them.

Mary Montgomery takes up this point too; nowadays it’s books we have to rely on, not people:

‘I must read it when facing the time
a language threatens to go dumb,
I must have a book that will tell me a story
That’s not on the lips of the people…’

We’re moving ever further away from our own history, whether the old tools or Gaelic (or any native tongue around the world).

I remember when I was a child in Hilton , and my granny died, her house was emptied and many of her belongings ended up on the shore. I was interested in history and ‘old stuff’ even then, and howled when I found out what all had been ‘thrown down the shore’.

Now that I look back, I suspect there was a kind of natural cycle at work: the fisher-folk acquired most things for their daily lives from what they earned from the sea, and what was left over went back there. Nowadays we are tidier, and we have turned our backs on the sea: what is broken or no longer needed goes into the skip – or, if we are lucky, the museum.

* The whole poem, with translation, is on this site – scroll down about 2/3:

http://www.scottishradiance.com/poet/poetcon2.htm