I SEE THAT Northern Ireland’s Culture Minister has called the Irishman’s Diary as a witness in his case to have the Gaelicised word “craic” repatriated to its mother languages, English and Scots: where, as it once was here, it is still spelt “crack”.
In his blog The Minister's Pen, Nelson McCausland cites the song The Crack was Ninety in the Isle of Man(mentioned in Wednesday's diary) as evidence for the argument. Since the ballad was written, he reminds readers, the word has been reinvented via Irish-language television, and other media, and is now posing as a native of the Connemara Gaeltacht.
“Why use a borrowed spelling when there is a well-established spelling already there?” asks the Minister. “The Irish version was simply the result of borrowing the word into a language without the letter K. There is a K in English and in Scots, so why not use it? There is nothing peculiarly Irish about crack . . . Ulsterfolk have enjoyed good crack for many a long year.”
Hear hear, I say. Being Ulsterfolk myself (albeit from the part outside the minister’s jurisdiction – the “peculiarly Irish” part, if you will), I can confirm that we were having the crack there long before any of us had ever heard of Seán Bán Breathnach, never mind the Seoige sisters.
Indeed I am on record – a broken record, readers might say – as suggesting that the spelling “craic” has about the same legitimacy as a three-euro note.
It’s true that I have also suggested this is a minor matter in the scheme of things. And that in the context of Ireland’s past linguistic struggles, “craic” might even be justified as a small, non-violent reprisal for the wholesale anglicisation of place-names, such as Cullybackey and Killyleagh, which once had well-established Irish spellings, with not a K in sight.
But, well, Brian Friel has said all that needs to be said there. And the fact remains that, on this particular issue, I find myself at one with both Mr McCausland and my fellow Irish Timescolumnist, Diarmaid Ó Muirithe whom the minister also calls as a witness for his comment: "The constant Gaelicisation of the good old English-Scottish dialect word crack as craic sets my teeth on edge."
I AM HAPPY to report, however, that I have a proposal for how Mr McCausland might go about reclaiming the word.
But first, as an enthusiastic supporter of the Ulster-Scots Agency, he may be interested to learn that I too am on the mailing list of that body’s newsletter. This is an indirect result of a lunch I had some years ago with members of the agency, who were in Dublin to promote the language: since when their publication has arrived in my post-box every quarter, addressing me jauntily as “Fellow Ulster-Scot”.
While the greeting may not be technically accurate in my case, it’s not a complete exaggeration either. The Minister for Culture may also be interested to learn that, even in Ulster’s southern fringes, where I grew up, the “hamely tongue” has a presence.
In parts of counties Monaghan and Cavan to this day, you will still hear a hill called a “brae”, for example; or a drain called a “sheugh”. The used of “thon” for “that” is not unknown either. And some Ulster-Scots verbs, such as “juke”, meaning “to move stealthily”, are still prevalent, eg: “I was tryin to juke past thon customs man at the brae last night and I fell into a sheugh”.
I mention this not in hope of getting a grant, but just to establish my credentials with the minister before outlining my cultural exchange proposal. Which, to get to the point, concerns the Ulster-Scots title of the aforementioned agency: the “Boord O Ulstèr-Scotch”.
Since that body was set up under the Belfast Agreement, I had always been curious about its use of the accent on the E in “Ulstèr”. So while interviewing the agency members later, I asked what effect it had on the word. And I was rather surprised when a member of the delegation admitted candidly that it had no effect: “We just thought it looked good”.
At the time, I was inclined to agree that it did look rather fetching. And that, what with its distinctive leftward slant, it nicely mirrored the accent used on the North’s other minority language, with which Ulster Scots compete for funding.
But in the intervening period, my suspicion has grown that the accent on the Boord’s name is in fact an Irish fada, which has been snatched from its language of origin, press-ganged, and forced to stand at an unnatural angle ever since by way of reminding Fenians that the promotion of Ulster-Scots is a revenge for the funding of Irish.
Mr McCausland will probably not accept my suspicion. But he must surely agree that there was no good reason to borrow a functionless accent for “Ulster”, when there was already a well-established, unaccented English version.
So I suggest that, as a confidence-building measure, he would use his influence with the Boord to have the kidnapped fada released and returned to its linguistic family at the earliest opportunity. In the meantime, Diarmaid and I promise to continue working for the crack’s repatriation; and for any retraining or counselling it may need after its long, traumatic stay in Connemara.