Ùrachadh mu Dheireadh 08/11/2017
Google pluspinterestShare on Stumble UponShare on RedditFacebookShare on Tumblr
TIOTAL
'The Perfect Loaf'
EXTERNAL ID
AB_LL_ANGUS_DUNN_02
DEIT
2008
LINN
2000an
CRUTHADAIR
Angus Dunn
NEACH-FIOSRACHAIDH
Am Baile
AITHNEACHADH MAOINE
1243
KEYWORDS
claistinneach
cruthan-tìre litreachais

Get Adobe Flash player

Tha a' chuibhreann chlaistinneach seo o 'The Perfect Loaf' le Angus Dunn, foillsichte an 2008. Tha e air a leughadh an seo leis an ùghdar.

'There is the doorstep, and there is the butcher's knife.
There is the promise of a book. And the elvers.
These are the landmarks of this place.

First, there is the doorstep, where nothing ever happened, again and again, for year after year.

There was a plant of thyme growing on the edge of that step, growing slowly, an inch in a year. And everything that could be seen from that doorstep took part in the same easy flow of time.

I sit there in the sunshine and the rain. I sit there at five years old and at ten. The concrete of the step has always had that chipped edge and corner: and then one year, and always thereafter, it has always had the thyme covering those wounds.

From that step, the sounds of the house are audible. The new baby is crying as her nappy is changed. She is crawling on the step beside me. She is running on the grass, she is crying from a fall by the fuchsia bush as the wind whips her hair.

Down the hill is another marker of this domain. Behind the general stores lies the butcher's shop. There is sawdust on the floor, renewed every morning, but always with bloody flecks in it and discarded fragments of fat.

There is always another customer in there, and always the butcher leans towards me as I go in. His hand reaches out and his knife flashes towards my crotch. 'Sausages! Sausages!' He beams his red meaty smile for the benefit of the other customer.

If there's no-one else in the shop I'm afraid to go in. I wait, counting the lemonade bottles in the wooden crates.

In the house itself, there are countless eddies where time is locked. At the table, I read the labels of jam jars, the sides of cereal boxes. I know every word. A voice says, 'We really must get him some good books. He's old enough for - ' The titles of the half-promised books change, the pattern is constant. On the sideboard there is a serpentine pattern of veneer that a finger can follow mindlessly, and does follow, mindlessly and endlessly, year after year. The pattern is always complete: later, the broken edges are the way it has always been. Twilight creeps through the house, as a voice says 'This is the BBC Home Service.'

The eels were a part of that small domain too, but almost accidentally. They pass through at their own time, from a secret part of their own world, through the edge of ours, and then into another, hidden part of their own.

Whenever there is a storm in Spring, elvers come out of our cold-water tap. Someone says that there must be a crack in the pipe, and the elvers crawl into it. Someone says that eels can travel a hundred yards over wet ground. Someone tells the story about the six-foot conger that Uncle Colin caught. Someone agrees that they always tangle your fishing line and I always listen, waiting for the six-foot conger to punctuate the pattern.

After a storm, I go down to the stream. Below the bridge, smooth rocks protrude above the water. They are covered with elvers, slithering over the wet stone. There are so many coming upstream that the burn can't hold them.

I sit there, watching the elvers moving over the stones and through the bridge. I can't stop watching, although I almost wish to. I am in the domain still, but it is the very edge of the pattern.'

Thogadh Aonghas Dunn ann an Allt Beithe is ann an Cromba agus an-diugh tha e a' fuireach faisg air Srath Pheofhair ann an Siorrachd Rois. 'S e a sgrìobh 'The Perfect Loaf' (2008), cruinneachadh de sgeulachdan goirid. Chaidh an nobhail aige, 'Writing in the Sand' (2006), a chur air a' gheàrr-liosta airson Duais Litreachail Alba aig Comann Bratach na Croise. Chaidh obair Aonghais fhoillseachadh ann an iomadh iris litreachail, nam measg 'New Writing Scotland' agus 'Shorts: the Macallan/Scotland on Sunday Short Story Collection'. Chaidh na sgeulachdan aige an craoladh cuideachd, air Rèidio 4, Rèidio Alba agus Loch Braoin FM.

Choisinn Aonghas Duais Robert Louis Stevenson 1995 agus Duais Neil Gunn airson Sgeulachd Ghoirid 2002. Chaidh a bhàrdachd fhoillseachadh ann an iomadh iris agus cruinneachadh Albannach.

Airson stiùireadh mu bhith a’ cleachdadh ìomhaighean agus susbaint eile, faicibh duilleag ‘Na Cumhaichean air Fad.’
’S e companaidh cuibhrichte fo bharantas clàraichte ann an Alba Àir. SC407011 agus carthannas clàraichte Albannach Àir. SC042593 a th’ ann an High Life na Gàidhealtachd.
Powered by Capture

'The Perfect Loaf'

2000an

claistinneach; cruthan-tìre litreachais

Am Baile

Literary Landscapes: Angus Dunn

Tha a' chuibhreann chlaistinneach seo o 'The Perfect Loaf' le Angus Dunn, foillsichte an 2008. Tha e air a leughadh an seo leis an ùghdar.<br /> <br /> 'There is the doorstep, and there is the butcher's knife.<br /> There is the promise of a book. And the elvers.<br /> These are the landmarks of this place.<br /> <br /> First, there is the doorstep, where nothing ever happened, again and again, for year after year.<br /> <br /> There was a plant of thyme growing on the edge of that step, growing slowly, an inch in a year. And everything that could be seen from that doorstep took part in the same easy flow of time.<br /> <br /> I sit there in the sunshine and the rain. I sit there at five years old and at ten. The concrete of the step has always had that chipped edge and corner: and then one year, and always thereafter, it has always had the thyme covering those wounds.<br /> <br /> From that step, the sounds of the house are audible. The new baby is crying as her nappy is changed. She is crawling on the step beside me. She is running on the grass, she is crying from a fall by the fuchsia bush as the wind whips her hair.<br /> <br /> Down the hill is another marker of this domain. Behind the general stores lies the butcher's shop. There is sawdust on the floor, renewed every morning, but always with bloody flecks in it and discarded fragments of fat.<br /> <br /> There is always another customer in there, and always the butcher leans towards me as I go in. His hand reaches out and his knife flashes towards my crotch. 'Sausages! Sausages!' He beams his red meaty smile for the benefit of the other customer.<br /> <br /> If there's no-one else in the shop I'm afraid to go in. I wait, counting the lemonade bottles in the wooden crates.<br /> <br /> In the house itself, there are countless eddies where time is locked. At the table, I read the labels of jam jars, the sides of cereal boxes. I know every word. A voice says, 'We really must get him some good books. He's old enough for - ' The titles of the half-promised books change, the pattern is constant. On the sideboard there is a serpentine pattern of veneer that a finger can follow mindlessly, and does follow, mindlessly and endlessly, year after year. The pattern is always complete: later, the broken edges are the way it has always been. Twilight creeps through the house, as a voice says 'This is the BBC Home Service.'<br /> <br /> The eels were a part of that small domain too, but almost accidentally. They pass through at their own time, from a secret part of their own world, through the edge of ours, and then into another, hidden part of their own.<br /> <br /> Whenever there is a storm in Spring, elvers come out of our cold-water tap. Someone says that there must be a crack in the pipe, and the elvers crawl into it. Someone says that eels can travel a hundred yards over wet ground. Someone tells the story about the six-foot conger that Uncle Colin caught. Someone agrees that they always tangle your fishing line and I always listen, waiting for the six-foot conger to punctuate the pattern.<br /> <br /> After a storm, I go down to the stream. Below the bridge, smooth rocks protrude above the water. They are covered with elvers, slithering over the wet stone. There are so many coming upstream that the burn can't hold them.<br /> <br /> I sit there, watching the elvers moving over the stones and through the bridge. I can't stop watching, although I almost wish to. I am in the domain still, but it is the very edge of the pattern.'<br /> <br /> Thogadh Aonghas Dunn ann an Allt Beithe is ann an Cromba agus an-diugh tha e a' fuireach faisg air Srath Pheofhair ann an Siorrachd Rois. 'S e a sgrìobh 'The Perfect Loaf' (2008), cruinneachadh de sgeulachdan goirid. Chaidh an nobhail aige, 'Writing in the Sand' (2006), a chur air a' gheàrr-liosta airson Duais Litreachail Alba aig Comann Bratach na Croise. Chaidh obair Aonghais fhoillseachadh ann an iomadh iris litreachail, nam measg 'New Writing Scotland' agus 'Shorts: the Macallan/Scotland on Sunday Short Story Collection'. Chaidh na sgeulachdan aige an craoladh cuideachd, air Rèidio 4, Rèidio Alba agus Loch Braoin FM. <br /> <br /> Choisinn Aonghas Duais Robert Louis Stevenson 1995 agus Duais Neil Gunn airson Sgeulachd Ghoirid 2002. Chaidh a bhàrdachd fhoillseachadh ann an iomadh iris agus cruinneachadh Albannach.