Ùrachadh mu Dheireadh 08/11/2017
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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.

'Immaculate gleaming campervans, shimmering like taj mahals, smug in their self- containment, come and park in the field that belongs to the rabbit-man. The grass is clipped closer than a carpet. All Campers Welcome his sign proclaims, and I can see the row of bungalows on wheels, parked side by side in a perfect recreation of a suburban street. A brave few wander across the dunes as far as here, plucky little Lawrences of Arabia, and stare into my garden. I offer them a few cabbage leaves but they decline, profuse in their thanks. This is not what they want. Perhaps they do not cook. I myself cook every day, soup from vegetable-scraps and rabbit-bones, scones, the dough soft as an infant's breath, and hearty life-saving stews with beans and peas and roots, and strands of seaweed, salty iodine memories for seasoning. I grow cabbages, carrots and kale in the dry Sahara soil, and I protect the shoots with flotsam and jetsam, with upturned lobster-pots and bundles of runaway nets and plastic containers from foreign fishing fleets, blow-ins, and corks and faded floats hang from the rowan to ward off evil spirits and so far this has proved happily successful. Evil spirits are warded off and the kale stands tall.

The brave who venture here admire the polished artefacts in many languages, a few of which I understand. Mad amounts of money are offered for the jewels in my crown, for my fossil family, the trench people, and I say No in many languages. I offer up the tent pegs instead, traditional ethnic folk-carvings, local totems I confirm. "Tent-pegs!" they laugh, delighted, and so in this way my captors and robbers are scattered about the globe, to be perched on mantelpieces, or accidentally burned, or hidden in attics, or displayed behind glass with other precious artefacts, while I receive a modest income for life's essentials. Who would have thought it. Cypraea moneta.

Yes yes yes yes yes. Yes. Certainly. Today we are going to the cafe, the one at the campsite. Blue, blue, a kind of blue, nobody knows the trouble I'm in, this gnarled and twisted limb is rotting on the vine, once bitten three O'Leary, they will wash me in hand-hot water with a tenderness to die for, and soothe creams and oils into the cracked leather because I'm worth it and polish me until all the ragged jagged edges are smooth again. They will use me for their dressing up game and disguise me as someone's mother. And then and only then will I be placed, this time surely, on the long trolley barrow-pram and wheeled out to the garden to join the others, eased into a deckchair, to season and weather under the protection of the rowan, to wait and watch and wait and watch, with this kind foreign stranger, who pretends so faultlessly, in kingfisher breaker blue.'

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' (4 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 /> 'Immaculate gleaming campervans, shimmering like taj mahals, smug in their self- containment, come and park in the field that belongs to the rabbit-man. The grass is clipped closer than a carpet. All Campers Welcome his sign proclaims, and I can see the row of bungalows on wheels, parked side by side in a perfect recreation of a suburban street. A brave few wander across the dunes as far as here, plucky little Lawrences of Arabia, and stare into my garden. I offer them a few cabbage leaves but they decline, profuse in their thanks. This is not what they want. Perhaps they do not cook. I myself cook every day, soup from vegetable-scraps and rabbit-bones, scones, the dough soft as an infant's breath, and hearty life-saving stews with beans and peas and roots, and strands of seaweed, salty iodine memories for seasoning. I grow cabbages, carrots and kale in the dry Sahara soil, and I protect the shoots with flotsam and jetsam, with upturned lobster-pots and bundles of runaway nets and plastic containers from foreign fishing fleets, blow-ins, and corks and faded floats hang from the rowan to ward off evil spirits and so far this has proved happily successful. Evil spirits are warded off and the kale stands tall.<br /> <br /> The brave who venture here admire the polished artefacts in many languages, a few of which I understand. Mad amounts of money are offered for the jewels in my crown, for my fossil family, the trench people, and I say No in many languages. I offer up the tent pegs instead, traditional ethnic folk-carvings, local totems I confirm. "Tent-pegs!" they laugh, delighted, and so in this way my captors and robbers are scattered about the globe, to be perched on mantelpieces, or accidentally burned, or hidden in attics, or displayed behind glass with other precious artefacts, while I receive a modest income for life's essentials. Who would have thought it. Cypraea moneta.<br /> <br /> Yes yes yes yes yes. Yes. Certainly. Today we are going to the cafe, the one at the campsite. Blue, blue, a kind of blue, nobody knows the trouble I'm in, this gnarled and twisted limb is rotting on the vine, once bitten three O'Leary, they will wash me in hand-hot water with a tenderness to die for, and soothe creams and oils into the cracked leather because I'm worth it and polish me until all the ragged jagged edges are smooth again. They will use me for their dressing up game and disguise me as someone's mother. And then and only then will I be placed, this time surely, on the long trolley barrow-pram and wheeled out to the garden to join the others, eased into a deckchair, to season and weather under the protection of the rowan, to wait and watch and wait and watch, with this kind foreign stranger, who pretends so faultlessly, in kingfisher breaker blue.'