Top Of The Sliabh

My ten year old came to me proudly the other night and proclaimed “Chuaigh Siobhán agus Seán go dtí an baile mór ag siopadóireacht”. “Great stuff” I said, “have a seat; there’s something you need to know.”

So I poured him a glass of Sprite, let him at the last handful of Quality Street and explained that that’s as good as it gets as far as the ‘aul Gaeilge is concerned. That the standard of his conversational capabilities will not improve one shred in the remaining seven years of his formal education.

That yes, he can contemplate having conversations in Irish when he leaves school but to make sure that they revolve around shopping excursions to the big town or if that is not appropriate he could perhaps look into the possibility of steering the dialogue in the direction of a description of a particularly appetising piece of sweet cake he has recently consumed. Meaningful conversation as Gaelige beyond these two core areas does not exist.

I told him he could relax, that it was one of our great traditions to reach the zenith of Irish at the age of ten. But I will be in the system for a long time yet he protested, surely I could learn more. Under no circumstances I replied. You can do no more; you have reached the Promised Land. Put your feet up, you’ve earned a rest.

“No slí” he says. “Slí” says I.