There’s a translation for Griogal Cridhe (Beloved Gregor) on the same page as Chi mi’n Geamhradh (I See the Winter), along with the haunting legend about how it was written. It has to be in my Runrig Top Ten too, and is more deserving of it. If it’s not there, I want to email my younger self and demand to know why not. She’ll probably be full of woolly excuses about having trouble choosing.
You might think there’s no good listening to a Gaelic song because even if it’s very catchy and you love it, you’ll never be able to sing along to it (especially if you can’t hear the pronunciations very well, like me). But that didn’t stop my younger self trying.
Obhan, obhan, obhan iri
Obhan iri O!
Obhan obhan obhan iri,
‘S mor mo mhulad’s mor.
(Great is my sorrow, great).
You simply can’t go to the end of your life without having heard this. It must be one of the older songs.
I remember discussing favourite music with someone… I said I liked Runrig, and he went off and listened to it somewhere (probably some crackly video) and came back and said “nah… not my thing.” I couldn’t believe it! How can anyone not like Runrig; at least their older songs that I liked? Dance Called America, Protect and Survive, Alba, Rocket to the Moon, Beat the Drum, Headlights, ‘S tu mo leannan? And others. He can’t have listened to them properly. He can’t have listened to them ALL, not in five minutes. He can’t have paid attention to the lyrics. He’s not listened to them on something that maximized the beat. ‘S mor mo mhulad’s mor.
I’ve just been having a little daydream. I play this tape, and I open up the window and play all the best ones louder than the others… obhan obhan obhan iri pouring from Diddums’s room and floating through the sweet Scottish air, touched by sun, bees and dumb-struck birds. The neighbours (in my daydream) come to the front door and ring politely. Mum answers.
“Excuse me, but we couldn’t help hearing the music you’ve got playing…”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, I’ll ask my daughter to turn it down.”
“No no no! Don’t do that, please. We just wanted to know what it is, as Don says he would love it for his birthday.”
Dream on… people have their own favourites. They probably waste them vainly on the air (Scottish, blogospheric or otherwise) and I don’t hear them.
(Barbecue smoke coils past Diddums’s window…. slams window shut).