Ùrachadh mu Dheireadh 08/11/2017
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TIOTAL
'The Dark of Summer'
EXTERNAL ID
AB_LL_ERIC_LINKLATER
DEIT
2008
LINN
2000an
CRUTHADAIR
Eric Linklater
NEACH-FIOSRACHAIDH
Am Baile
AITHNEACHADH MAOINE
1315
KEYWORDS
claistinneach
cruthan-tìre litreachais

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Tha a' chuibhreann chlaistinneach seo o 'The Dark of Summer' le Eric Linklater, foillsichte an toiseach ann an 1956. Tha e air a leughadh an seo le Kristin Linklater.

'For an hour or so the trawler's movement was easy enough. But gradually, its small and playful rolling became a progress in which we rose and fell with ponderous deliberation. Gravely, the well flared bow came up and with unhurried gravity descended into a trough of the waves. This movement continued for another hour, two hours perhaps, and by a change of imperceptible growth turned into a worried, even nervous motion. Now waves rose up and smote our ship and the shudder of their impact was communicated to all her parts. She sank now, not into smooth valleys of the sea, but with a tumble into steep and barbarous glens. Sometimes the waves caught and held her so that she had to shake herself to get free of them. She would rise with the lift of a balloon but only to be punched in the side and fall again. Inside the ship, there was a constant groaning and creeking.

The wind was on the port bow and towards it the waves came hurrying in long thin ridges, leaden grey, showing white teeth in snarling grimaces. Over wrinkled hollows they impended with implacable ferocity and here and there shot up in a jaunty white plume of spray. But the general colour of the attacking sea was a very dark, glistening grey. On the starboard side, from which the waters fled, the sea was grossly patched with white as though turning belly-up, the malignant waves revealed a torturing salt leprosy that drove them howling round the world. On the weather side the wind beat with a continuous shrill bellowing and over the weather bow rose high arcs of spray; often the whole bow dipped and flung not a curtain or a cloud but a wave itself upon the deck, where it fell with a dull and shuddering roar then broke to white and swept away as if across a half tide rock. Under the lea-side bent over the sea there raced always a thick and hissing spray.

Now the galel was at its height but the moverment of the sea was still increasing; it was no longer merely very rough, it became a huge and vehement and abysmal violence on which roughness supervened. Now the movement came from great depths that had been slow to answer the gail's demand but now, as it seemed, were rolling in a cosmic tide from whose gigantic billows rising dark and high above the bridge, the storm tore a continuous spray and in whose sickening troughs an undertow or contrary swell often laid us low upon our side. Into these deep valleys of the sea, the trawler sank and shuddered. Then, with its bow pointing to the sky and the gun on its forward deck aiming at high clouds, it climbed to mountainous and tattered crests that filled its main deck with white water and with a roll and a twist rushed down again out of the wind, but into the rearing menace of the next, great wave. Time lost its ordinary measure. Time was measured only by the black hills we must climb, the monstrous valleys into which we swooped.

There was no sun, but for a little while a half transparent cloud let through a meager light that silvered the ragged tops of impending waves and scored more deeply the wind cut runes in the sucking, swirling hollows beneath. Ridge after broken ridge in endless precession, the howling of the gail, the deck vanishing under a cascade of water and the little ship with its little company of men tumbling madly, groaning and protesting but holding its course and fighting stubbornly mile after mile towards the south.'

'S ann o theaghlach de mharaichean às Arcaibh is uaireigin o Lochlann a bha Eric Linklater, ged rugadh e ann am Penarth sa Chuimrigh ann an 1899, a' gluasad gu Cardiff ann an 1900. Ann an 1913, ghluais an teaghlach a dh'Obar Dheathain, far an do thòisich Linklater air cùrsa ceumnachaidh meadaigeach aig an Oilthigh ann an 1916. San aon bhliadhna chaidh e a-steach don arm, a' togail fhoghlam ann an lèigheas a-rithist ann an 1918, cùrsa nach do chrìochnaich e a-riamh. Chaidh a stèidheachadh na iar-neach-deasachaidh aig 'The Times of India' ann an 1925, mus do ghluais e dh'Ameireaga, far an robh e na cho-chompanach o 1928-1930.

Chaidh a' chiad nobhail aig Linklater, 'White-Maa's Saga', fhoillseachadh ann an 1929. Phòs e Marjorie MackIntyre ann an 1933, agus, an dèidh dha ùine a chur seachad a' fuireach san Eadailt agus ann an Alba, ghluais iad ann an 1934 gu Harray ann an Arcaibh, gu taigh a tha an-diugh na thaigh-òsta, am Merkister. Rinn e dhachaigh an sin fad trì bliadhn' deug, ach bha e an còmhnaidh an-fhoiseil agus rinn e tòrr siubhail, dha na h-Innseachan, a Shìna, dh'Ameireaga agus dhan Roinn Eòrpa, far an do rinn e rannsachadh is sgrìobhadh de shreath de nobhailean, nam measg 'Juan in America', 'Magnus Merriman' agus 'Private Angelo'. San Dàrna Cogadh chaidh Linklater a-steach do na h-Innleadairean Rìoghail, na Royal Engineers, agus chuir e air bhonn an 'Orkney Blast' ann an 1941. Ann an 1947, ghluais an teaghlach do Thaigh Bhaile a' Choillean (Pitcalzean) ann an Siorrachd Rois. Bhàsaich Linklater ann an Obar Dheathain ann an 1974, agus chaidh amhlaigeadh ann an cladh Eaglais Harray ann an Arcaibh a ghràidh, a' coimhead thairis air Merkister agus an loch far an do chuir e seachad mòran ùine ag iasgach.

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.
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'The Dark of Summer'

2000an

claistinneach; cruthan-tìre litreachais

Am Baile

Literary Landscapes: Eric Linklater

Tha a' chuibhreann chlaistinneach seo o 'The Dark of Summer' le Eric Linklater, foillsichte an toiseach ann an 1956. Tha e air a leughadh an seo le Kristin Linklater.<br /> <br /> 'For an hour or so the trawler's movement was easy enough. But gradually, its small and playful rolling became a progress in which we rose and fell with ponderous deliberation. Gravely, the well flared bow came up and with unhurried gravity descended into a trough of the waves. This movement continued for another hour, two hours perhaps, and by a change of imperceptible growth turned into a worried, even nervous motion. Now waves rose up and smote our ship and the shudder of their impact was communicated to all her parts. She sank now, not into smooth valleys of the sea, but with a tumble into steep and barbarous glens. Sometimes the waves caught and held her so that she had to shake herself to get free of them. She would rise with the lift of a balloon but only to be punched in the side and fall again. Inside the ship, there was a constant groaning and creeking. <br /> <br /> The wind was on the port bow and towards it the waves came hurrying in long thin ridges, leaden grey, showing white teeth in snarling grimaces. Over wrinkled hollows they impended with implacable ferocity and here and there shot up in a jaunty white plume of spray. But the general colour of the attacking sea was a very dark, glistening grey. On the starboard side, from which the waters fled, the sea was grossly patched with white as though turning belly-up, the malignant waves revealed a torturing salt leprosy that drove them howling round the world. On the weather side the wind beat with a continuous shrill bellowing and over the weather bow rose high arcs of spray; often the whole bow dipped and flung not a curtain or a cloud but a wave itself upon the deck, where it fell with a dull and shuddering roar then broke to white and swept away as if across a half tide rock. Under the lea-side bent over the sea there raced always a thick and hissing spray.<br /> <br /> Now the galel was at its height but the moverment of the sea was still increasing; it was no longer merely very rough, it became a huge and vehement and abysmal violence on which roughness supervened. Now the movement came from great depths that had been slow to answer the gail's demand but now, as it seemed, were rolling in a cosmic tide from whose gigantic billows rising dark and high above the bridge, the storm tore a continuous spray and in whose sickening troughs an undertow or contrary swell often laid us low upon our side. Into these deep valleys of the sea, the trawler sank and shuddered. Then, with its bow pointing to the sky and the gun on its forward deck aiming at high clouds, it climbed to mountainous and tattered crests that filled its main deck with white water and with a roll and a twist rushed down again out of the wind, but into the rearing menace of the next, great wave. Time lost its ordinary measure. Time was measured only by the black hills we must climb, the monstrous valleys into which we swooped. <br /> <br /> There was no sun, but for a little while a half transparent cloud let through a meager light that silvered the ragged tops of impending waves and scored more deeply the wind cut runes in the sucking, swirling hollows beneath. Ridge after broken ridge in endless precession, the howling of the gail, the deck vanishing under a cascade of water and the little ship with its little company of men tumbling madly, groaning and protesting but holding its course and fighting stubbornly mile after mile towards the south.'<br /> <br /> 'S ann o theaghlach de mharaichean às Arcaibh is uaireigin o Lochlann a bha Eric Linklater, ged rugadh e ann am Penarth sa Chuimrigh ann an 1899, a' gluasad gu Cardiff ann an 1900. Ann an 1913, ghluais an teaghlach a dh'Obar Dheathain, far an do thòisich Linklater air cùrsa ceumnachaidh meadaigeach aig an Oilthigh ann an 1916. San aon bhliadhna chaidh e a-steach don arm, a' togail fhoghlam ann an lèigheas a-rithist ann an 1918, cùrsa nach do chrìochnaich e a-riamh. Chaidh a stèidheachadh na iar-neach-deasachaidh aig 'The Times of India' ann an 1925, mus do ghluais e dh'Ameireaga, far an robh e na cho-chompanach o 1928-1930. <br /> <br /> Chaidh a' chiad nobhail aig Linklater, 'White-Maa's Saga', fhoillseachadh ann an 1929. Phòs e Marjorie MackIntyre ann an 1933, agus, an dèidh dha ùine a chur seachad a' fuireach san Eadailt agus ann an Alba, ghluais iad ann an 1934 gu Harray ann an Arcaibh, gu taigh a tha an-diugh na thaigh-òsta, am Merkister. Rinn e dhachaigh an sin fad trì bliadhn' deug, ach bha e an còmhnaidh an-fhoiseil agus rinn e tòrr siubhail, dha na h-Innseachan, a Shìna, dh'Ameireaga agus dhan Roinn Eòrpa, far an do rinn e rannsachadh is sgrìobhadh de shreath de nobhailean, nam measg 'Juan in America', 'Magnus Merriman' agus 'Private Angelo'. San Dàrna Cogadh chaidh Linklater a-steach do na h-Innleadairean Rìoghail, na Royal Engineers, agus chuir e air bhonn an 'Orkney Blast' ann an 1941. Ann an 1947, ghluais an teaghlach do Thaigh Bhaile a' Choillean (Pitcalzean) ann an Siorrachd Rois. Bhàsaich Linklater ann an Obar Dheathain ann an 1974, agus chaidh amhlaigeadh ann an cladh Eaglais Harray ann an Arcaibh a ghràidh, a' coimhead thairis air Merkister agus an loch far an do chuir e seachad mòran ùine ag iasgach.