“It was my grandmother, Sighle Humphreys, who taught me Irish and when I asked her one day what the word for hole was, she replied: ‘Do you mean one dug into the ground by an animal? That’s an uachas. Or one made by fish in a sandy riverbed for spawning? That’s a saothar. Or if it’s been hollowed out by hooves of beasts and then filled by rain it’s a plobán. Or if a lobster is hiding in one it’s a fach. Or if it’s been created as a hideaway by a wild beast it’s a puathais.’”
Manchán Magan connected language to landscape, routing it back to our beating hearts in Thirty-Two Words for Field, his exploration of the wisdom and insight encoded in words.
Like a saunter on a soft day, he guides us down etymological boreens (bóithrín) always hand-holding and assuring that we will be all the better for the journey we embark upon.
When news of his death broke this morning, one of our former editors Ian Lamont, recalled a time over a decade ago when Daniel Gray, the then editor of Totally Dublin, managed to persuade Manchán to participate in the Dublin version of Pecha Kucha, a series of events the magazine was running in collaboration with Irish Architecture Foundation.
As many will be aware, the set-up for Pecha Kucha is simple: each presenter is allowed twenty images, with twenty seconds to explain their work through each one – a total of just six minutes and forty seconds. It’s a challenge, but Manchán was more than up for it.
As Ian recalls in an Instagram story, “He spoke for 400 seconds about gates. The whole event was great, but this was the most interesting contribution of the night by far; his curiosity, humour and depth of knowledge incomparable. RIP MM.”
Tóg gó bóg é Manchán. Our deepest sympathies to his family and all who loved him. x
Words: Martina Murray
Cover illustration for Thirty-Two Words For Field by Steve Doogan. Published by Gill Books
Back in 2009 Manchán talked to us about Broken Croí/Heart Briste, his new play for Dublin Fringe Festival, the story of a disillusioned Gaeilge fanatic seeking revenge for the death of the language on his star pupil, a lonely 18 year old dancer. You can read it here.
