Pondering our poetic placenames
PITY the linguistic summersaults required of a debutant postman finding his feet in the baronies of Magunihy and Truhanacmy. In a corner of the Kingdom where an address can vault vowels into an alphabetical foxtrot, imagine the mental dexterity required for correct mail delivery on the byways and boreens of Tooreennahone, Tooreennascarty, Tooreennasliggaun and Tooreennastooka.
A few miles in any direction across those Kerry hills and said postie will need keen eyes to distinguish Rossacroobeg from Rossacroonaloo, not to mention the differing geographic joys between Mweennalaa, Cappyantanvally and Lisheennashingane. One can only guess how many times slow-witted mailmen must endure the exasperation of irate locals: “For the umpteenth time, Seán, this is Cummeennabuddoge, sure ’tis Cummeenduvasig you want!” Of course it’s not just in Kerry such magnificently jawstretching combinations occur – every county has a multitude of its tongue-twisting appellations. To say that Ireland’s native placenames have a semantic beauty is surely an understatement, and one especially true when city dwellers depart their familiar urban highways on jaunts to the valleys and hills of the heartland. That old joke of the lost Dubliner asking for directions only to be told, “Well, I wouldn’t start out from here….” is no idle myth. Local landmarks like hills, rivers and ancient boundaries often come into play when motorists find themselves confronted with a rustic crossroads devoid of signposts. Indeed with the recent proliferation of AirBnBs popping up on many a distant knoll, the colloquial instruction to “pass straight by the shed near the mown meadow and take the second big left after the withering beech tree” is a geographical jigsaw we’ve all endured on weekend mini-breaks in search of the real Ireland.
Sad to say, though, but the joy of wrestling with our poetic nomenclature has been a sport somewhat in decline due to the creeping Anglicisation of native placenames dating back centuries. While, for instance, it might be more verbally efficient to follow a signpost indicating Ballysodare, doesn’t its ancient address as Beal Easa Dara – the Mouth of the Waterfall of the Oak Grove – conjure up a far more enticing world? Similarly, though there’s much to admire about Donnybrook, who can deny the fantastical imagery invoked by its ancient alter ego, Domhnach Broc – the Church of the Badgers. The dismal effect of these Anglicisations seems particularly sad during the current Seachtain na Gaeilge – Irish Language Week – one of the biggest celebrations of our native tongue and culture.
Yet, all is not lost, due in part to the diligence of a scholar who saw the glory of recording those uniquely Celtic names. The letters of John O’Donovan, the man in charge of the Ordnance Survey’s epic topographical trawl of 1842 and ’43, has left us a trove of folk tales, myths and legends connected to local place-names.
A treasure map to the way we were, O’Donovan’s archived memoirs at the Royal Irish Academy exude the soul of a man who cared. “Though my letters appear as wild as the mountains in which they were written, still do I feel myself exceedingly in love with all the rhymes and rags of history that they may be hereafter digested and arranged in proper order.”
Amen to that, sir.
As to my choice for best address in all the land? It has to be Muckanaghederdauhaulia, deep in the Connemara Gaeltacht. Its Irish origin – Muiceanach idir dhá sháile – translates as ‘a piggery between two expanses of briny water.’
Only Termonfeckin gorgeous, so ’tis.