r2vyln3rdioj14u-rld0ska where mountains meet the sea: April 2011

Chì mi na mórbheanna /The Mist Covered Mountains

Oh, I see, I see the great mountains
Oh, I see, I see the lofty mountains
Oh, I see, I see the corries
I see the peaks beneath the mist

I see, straight away, the place of my birth
I will be welcomed in a language which I understand
I will receive hospitality and love when I reach there
That I would not trade for a ton of gold


I see woods there, I see thickets there
I see fair, fertile fields there
I see the deer on the ground of the corries
Shrouded in a garment of mist


High mountains with lovely slopes
Folk there who are always kind
Light is my step when I go bounding to see them
And I will willingly remain there for a long while


Chì mi na mórbheanna

O chì, chì mi na mòr-bheanna
O chì, chì mi na còrr-bheanna
O chì, chì mi na coireachan
Chì mi na sgoran fo cheò

Chì mi gun dàil an t-àite san d'rugadh mi
Cuirear orm fàilte sa chànain a thuigeas mi
Gheibh mi ann aoidh agus gràdh nuair a ruigeam
Nach reicinn air tunnachan òir


Chì mi na coilltean, chì mi na doireachan
Chì mi ann màghan bàna is toraiche
Chì mi na féidh air làr nan coireachan
Falaicht' an trusgan de cheò


Beanntaichean àrda is àillidh leacainnean
Sluagh ann an còmhnuidh is còire cleachdainnean
'S aotrom mo cheum a' leum g'am faicinn
Is fanaidh mi tacan le deòin


These are the verses as sung by The Rankin Family, a wonderful group of singers who come from the wee village of Mabou in Inverness County on Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia, Canada. The Gaelic words of this song were originally written in 1856 by John Cameron of Ballachulish, in the Scottish Highlands. The title was originally "Dùil ri Baile Chaolais fhaicinn" (Hoping to see Ballachulish), set to an air adapted from the English tune Johnny Stays Long at the Fair.


From Carsaig you can see it.
Three peaks rising up out of the Atlantic,
Like a sea monster, the ridge of a dragon's back.
What is there to find but a scattering of houses,
A road, a hotel, then nothing.
It drifts into mist, a huge loneliness,
Composed of bracken and moor and cave.
Who comes to look? Who bothers
To cross the few sea miles
To watch some great mound of empty stone
Drift into the distance?
This busy world would think it worthless -
A barren landfall on the edge of sanity.
To me it is wondrous that such things should still remain,
Uncharted and untamed, like eagles.

Kenneth Steven, from Columba