SITTING IN Bewley’s cafe the other day, I opened a batch of readers’ correspondence to discover that my recent comments about the correct pronunciation of “Malin” have caused some consternation in Donegal.
Of course, I had only been relaying the suggestion of Iris O’Sullivan, herself a Malin-ite, who told me that the name was “Mawlin”, more or less, until the BBC shipping forecast convinced people otherwise.
But among those now begging to differ were Máire Crumlish. Who, as she pointed out in a letter, also has native credentials. “I too come from that most picturesque village”, she wrote, in the process of assuring me, categorically, that the name was pronounced “Malin, not Maulin”.
The BBC weather forecast was therefore innocent of all charges, she went on. And she was doubly sure of this because her own father, a teacher, had been in contact with the broadcasters about the issue once, helping ensure their version was correct.
Presumably his contacts were with the famous BBC Pronunciation Unit, that Maeve Binchy – then this London Correspondent – visited some years ago for an Irish Times feature.
She reported afterwards that the unit kept dense files dealing with such questions as how to say “Magherafelt”. But she also noted that the biggest file was not on any Irish place-name. Instead it related to a former British colony in Africa, Nyasaland.
Thus, only after considering 19 pages of conflicting evidence did the unit finally rule in favour of pronouncing the first syllable as “Nee”, rather than “Nye”. Which shows how contentious pronunciation can be, even when native advice is available.
So maybe it’s no surprise that something as apparently simple as Malin might provoke argument. In any case, as I discovered (still in Bewleys), Enda O’Doherty had also weighed in on the issue, with an e-mail saying he had never heard his father – born in nearby Carndonagh in 1913 – or anyone else of that generation saying “Mawlin”.
So much for my suggestion that the fada on the old Irish name would explain the latter pronunciation. On the contrary, Enda reminded me that Donegal Irish speakers do not recognise the jurisdiction of the fada, at least as it is is sounded in Connacht and Munster.
Hence the Glenties “Tá”, which sounds closer to the English diminutive for “thanks” than to the Irish word used elsewhere.
None of my correspondents openly accused Iris O’Sullivan of having Munster relatives, although her surname had not gone unnoticed. Thus Enda wondered if a possible explanation of her “Mawlin” pronunciation is that “the tribal memory of the O’Sullivan clan resides a lot closer to Mizen than to Malin Head”.
I don’t know, but no doubt further clarification will emerge in due course.
THAT ISSUES of pronunciation can be stickier than a Bewley’s bun was further underlined by an e-mail from Conall Hamill. Who could well be from Irish-speaking Donegal, with a first name like that, but who specialises instead in unravelling the idiosyncrasies of French.
He even writes a blog
on the subject, ( hamillfrenchblog.wordpress.com), illuminating such mysteries as why, if you pronounce the X in Chamonix, chamoniards may not know what you mean, whereas if you pronounce Dax as "Da", by the same logic, locals may laugh at you.
But as he also explained to me, mispronunciation can be a more serious matter. As in the name of a certain Jacques Mesrine, a person formerly of some notoriety in France.
Both his “S”s were silent, it seems. And while most people automatically understood this in the case of “Jacques”, they sometimes made the mistake of thinking the S in his surname should be sounded. Which greatly annoyed the same man, who considered the letter’s right to silence absolute.
This might not be have been a problem for anyone except himself, except that Jacques was a criminal psychopath. In fact, he was the most wanted man in France until shot dead by police in 1979. So this is no longer as pressing a problem for tourists as it once was, but it’s still a useful illustration of the issues.
Staying with France, another correspondent, Richard Fisher, reminded me of Agincourt, site of the famous battle in which Henry V led his troops “once more into the breach”. When it first became known in England, he writes, it was pronounced “A-gin”, as in the drink, and “court” as in the Old Bailey.
Gradually, however, a more sophisticated pronunciation emerged, presumed to be the same as the French. Except that, as Richard discovered when he first visited it, there’s no such place in France as Agincourt, however you say it. “Azincourt” is the name of the town.
Not being native to these parts, Richard admitted he might have similar problems with Irish place-names, except that “fortunately I have enough Irish friends to guide me before I make a complete fool of myself”. Which is good to hear (although if your friends are from Donegal, Richard, I’d steer clear of “Malin” until we sort this issue out).
Of course, the evolution of language can make fools of us all, as I reflected over my Bewley’s cappuccino, recalling the sad case of one well-known Irish family of French origin.
They came from a particularly scenic part of France, we’re told: so much so that it was once reflected in their family name: “de Beaulieu”. Then they ended up in Dublin, running a cafe business, and having their name pronounced as if it rhymed with “Julie”. It’s almost tragic. They were from a beautiful place, almost by definition. But somewhere along the line, they got lost.
fmcnally@irishtimes.com