Ùrachadh mu Dheireadh 15/08/2017
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'S e 'Stac Jenny' pìos sgrìobhaidh a choisinn 'Àrd-mholadh' ann an earrann rosg nan inbhich ann an Co-fharpais Sgrìobhaidh Nèill Ghunnaich, 2007. Tha e air a leughadh an seo leis an ùghdar, Alison Napier, An Luirg.

'S e 'Àiteachan Gàidhealach' cuspair a bha a' comharrachadh Gàidhealtachd 2007, bliadhna Cultar na Gàidhealtachd an Alba. 'S e na britheamhan ann an earrann rosg nan inbhich Mairead Elphinstone, Sgrìobhadair Albannach, agus Anna Yule, Neach-gairm Urras Nèill Ghuinne.

Tha Co-fharpais Sgrìobhaidh Nèill Ghuinne air a chur air dòigh le luchd-obrach Seirbheis Foghlaim, Cultair & Spòrs Chomhairle na Gàidhealtachd le taic o Urras Nèill Ghuinne. Chaidh a chur air bhonn ann an 1988.

'The bundle used to cry, a fierce wail that stunned and stopped my fractured heart and wrenched lumps of rage from under my thin shirt and hurled them into the sea. The bundle used up all the life I had, and that I would have, and absorbed the love and the longing into her weak blotting-paper frame but it was not enough. The bundle was taken from me and I know I put up a fair fight. I screeched and screamed and hurled my rages at everyone who dared come near; the world was astonished at my strength. They came too close so I fled, a nightmare flight in ill-fitting shoes and a heavy leather coat, clutching my bundle, clanking robotically in my useless suit of armour, stumbling on the sheep-shorn machair arms legs heart all broken up and breaking down as I head for the waves, and nurses in blue and doctors in white, disguised as breakers, just smiled or so it seemed, and took my sunshine away. You'll never know, dear. I searched, I did, I searched in vain. Sorry. I do recall an unseemly scuffle.

But scuffles come and scuffles go, come and, go, as tides rise and fall. Soon the echoes in my hollow spaces diminished and I returned to the address I had given as home to the home-breakers. The diminishing returns of stac Jenny, I explained to my neighbour who still brought me rabbits, only smaller now. He smiled, baffled but brave, coming and going, as if it mattered.

I have chopped the pew up into kindling. Now I sit alone on a deckchair. I have reclaimed the Best Room, the one at the front where I was not allowed to go, and I sit on a deckchair because the armchairs have mice living in them. And no mouse ever lived in a deckchair. This much I know.

I have a knife and I sit on my deckchair and I whittle and carve, shavings scattered round my feet. So far I have made thirty-seven tent pegs, each one carved into a nine-inch tall thin doctor or a nine-inch tall thin nurse. I hammer them into the ground around my house to make sure they are working. They are working. And I have carved a spurtle with a mermaid figure head, her hair flies out behind her and her chin is raised in defiance and her eyes stare blankly out across the boiling seas in my porridge pan every morning.

I have walked the moors, the mad moines, those wide open spaces that share their skies with deserts and steppes, with prairies and plains, I have walked and walked towards all the horizons with my wheelbarrow pram and crept down into deep dark ditches and clawed at the buried bleached branches poking out of the peat, the fossilised timber that waits for me in the trenches. My nails bleed and my feet are rotting and sinking but I drag the limbs out and push them home, whispering and singing. Then I wash each one in a tin bath-tub in the kitchen, with hand hot water, a clean rag and scented soap, tenderly and lovingly, cotton-buds into all its secret private places, I soothe the bruises and I ease the twists and gnarls, I wrap it in a towel-blanket and hold it close to me, rocking it to sleep, humming a lament. Once they are stilled I lay them to rest outside by the sentry rowan and they are warmed by the summer suns and cleansed by the winter winds. When the weather allows I take my deckchair outside and I sit and polish them with the finest sandpaper and massage them with linseed oils. In this way I know they will stay with me forever and indeed they do'

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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'Stac Jenny' (3 de 4)

2000an

Niall Gunnach; pìosan bàrdachd; litreachas; cofharpaisean; farpaisean; co-fharpaisean sgrìobhaidh; co-fharpaisean bhàrdachd; sgeulachd; sgeulachdan; seanchas; sgrìobhadh rosg; bàird; sgrìobhadairean

Am Baile

Neil Gunn Writing Competition (audios)

'S e 'Stac Jenny' pìos sgrìobhaidh a choisinn 'Àrd-mholadh' ann an earrann rosg nan inbhich ann an Co-fharpais Sgrìobhaidh Nèill Ghunnaich, 2007. Tha e air a leughadh an seo leis an ùghdar, Alison Napier, An Luirg.<br /> <br /> 'S e 'Àiteachan Gàidhealach' cuspair a bha a' comharrachadh Gàidhealtachd 2007, bliadhna Cultar na Gàidhealtachd an Alba. 'S e na britheamhan ann an earrann rosg nan inbhich Mairead Elphinstone, Sgrìobhadair Albannach, agus Anna Yule, Neach-gairm Urras Nèill Ghuinne.<br /> <br /> Tha Co-fharpais Sgrìobhaidh Nèill Ghuinne air a chur air dòigh le luchd-obrach Seirbheis Foghlaim, Cultair & Spòrs Chomhairle na Gàidhealtachd le taic o Urras Nèill Ghuinne. Chaidh a chur air bhonn ann an 1988.<br /> <br /> 'The bundle used to cry, a fierce wail that stunned and stopped my fractured heart and wrenched lumps of rage from under my thin shirt and hurled them into the sea. The bundle used up all the life I had, and that I would have, and absorbed the love and the longing into her weak blotting-paper frame but it was not enough. The bundle was taken from me and I know I put up a fair fight. I screeched and screamed and hurled my rages at everyone who dared come near; the world was astonished at my strength. They came too close so I fled, a nightmare flight in ill-fitting shoes and a heavy leather coat, clutching my bundle, clanking robotically in my useless suit of armour, stumbling on the sheep-shorn machair arms legs heart all broken up and breaking down as I head for the waves, and nurses in blue and doctors in white, disguised as breakers, just smiled or so it seemed, and took my sunshine away. You'll never know, dear. I searched, I did, I searched in vain. Sorry. I do recall an unseemly scuffle.<br /> <br /> But scuffles come and scuffles go, come and, go, as tides rise and fall. Soon the echoes in my hollow spaces diminished and I returned to the address I had given as home to the home-breakers. The diminishing returns of stac Jenny, I explained to my neighbour who still brought me rabbits, only smaller now. He smiled, baffled but brave, coming and going, as if it mattered.<br /> <br /> I have chopped the pew up into kindling. Now I sit alone on a deckchair. I have reclaimed the Best Room, the one at the front where I was not allowed to go, and I sit on a deckchair because the armchairs have mice living in them. And no mouse ever lived in a deckchair. This much I know.<br /> <br /> I have a knife and I sit on my deckchair and I whittle and carve, shavings scattered round my feet. So far I have made thirty-seven tent pegs, each one carved into a nine-inch tall thin doctor or a nine-inch tall thin nurse. I hammer them into the ground around my house to make sure they are working. They are working. And I have carved a spurtle with a mermaid figure head, her hair flies out behind her and her chin is raised in defiance and her eyes stare blankly out across the boiling seas in my porridge pan every morning.<br /> <br /> I have walked the moors, the mad moines, those wide open spaces that share their skies with deserts and steppes, with prairies and plains, I have walked and walked towards all the horizons with my wheelbarrow pram and crept down into deep dark ditches and clawed at the buried bleached branches poking out of the peat, the fossilised timber that waits for me in the trenches. My nails bleed and my feet are rotting and sinking but I drag the limbs out and push them home, whispering and singing. Then I wash each one in a tin bath-tub in the kitchen, with hand hot water, a clean rag and scented soap, tenderly and lovingly, cotton-buds into all its secret private places, I soothe the bruises and I ease the twists and gnarls, I wrap it in a towel-blanket and hold it close to me, rocking it to sleep, humming a lament. Once they are stilled I lay them to rest outside by the sentry rowan and they are warmed by the summer suns and cleansed by the winter winds. When the weather allows I take my deckchair outside and I sit and polish them with the finest sandpaper and massage them with linseed oils. In this way I know they will stay with me forever and indeed they do'