Scríobhann James Mac Éinrí faoina shaol nua i gCathair na dTreabh, áit a bhfuil an Ghaeilge ina thimpeall go minic.Ó Ard Mhacha go Gaillimh, and the strange joy of no longer turning around every time I heard Gaeilge.
When I moved to Galway for my master's, I expected a few things; rain, students everywhere, good nights out, and of course, Gaeilge.
People had told me before I moved: "You’ll love Galway, Irish is everywhere there."
"Sin an áit a bhfuil an Ghaeilge beo."
"There’s Gaeilge everywhere."
I believed them, but I don’t think I fully understood what they meant until I got there.
Because after a while in Galway, something strange happened to me.
D’éirigh mé dall ar an nGaeilge.
I became blind to Irish.
Not in a bad way. The opposite, really. I started walking past Irish without noticing it in the same way anymore. It was on signs, in shops, in pubs, on the streets, in cafés, in small conversations between parents and children, students and friends.
And after a while, I stopped turning around.
That might sound like a strange thing to celebrate, but for me, it felt massive.
I grew up in Armagh as a Gaeilgeoir. My dad is from Kerry and had Irish, my siblings had Irish, and most of my friends had Irish too. I went through the Irish-medium unit in secondary school, and me and my friends always made an effort to use Irish outside the classroom as much as we could.
But still, if I heard Irish out in public in Armagh — in a shopping centre, on a train, walking around town — it felt like a big moment.
I’d turn around. I’d look at my friends. I’d say something like: "Did you hear that? They’re speaking Irish."
Bhí sé cineál speisialta gach uair.
And it happened the other way too. When me and my friends were out speaking Irish, people would sometimes come up to us and say something kind. Once, someone came over to us in a shopping centre and said: "I love yous two speaking Irish." Another time, myself and a friend were speaking Irish on the train and two people told us it was lovely to hear the language being spoken.
That always meant a lot. It felt like a compliment, but also like encouragement. Like people were happy to hear Irish out in the open.
I don’t want this to sound like I’m saying there is no Irish in Armagh. There is. And it is growing. There are Irish classes, community groups, social events, Irish-language spaces and people doing brilliant work for the language. I have huge respect for that.
But growing up there, Irish in public often stood out to me. It felt precious because it was not something I heard everywhere. When you did hear it, you noticed it.
Then I came to Galway.
At the start, I noticed everything. Irish on shopfronts. Irish on restaurants and pubs. Irish on signs. Irish in conversations. I would point things out to my friends like: "Look at that — tá Gaeilge air sin."
I remember going to Áras na nGael and being amazed that there was an Irish-language bar in the middle of the city. It wasn’t just Irish in a classroom or at a special event. It was Irish as part of a night out.
One day, myself and a friend were in the swimming pool in Galway and we heard a father speaking Irish to his son. Straight away, I turned to my friend and said: "Tá siad ag labhairt Gaeilge."
That same feeling was still there at the start. The little shock. The excitement. The urge to tell someone else.
I heard older people speaking Irish on the street. I heard students speaking Irish as they walked past. I saw Irish in places I didn’t expect it. A cold dip group trí Ghaeilge. A run club trí Ghaeilge. Social events, sports, pubs, cafés — things that were not necessarily political or academic, just normal parts of life happening through Irish.
And at the start, I found some of it funny. I remember thinking: "A run club as Gaeilge? Cad é an gá atá leis sin?"
But then I realised that was exactly the point.
There doesn’t always have to be a "need" for it. That is the beauty of it.
When a language is alive, it is not only used for official things, school, politics, exams or formal events. It is used for running, swimming, coffee, pints, football, slagging, laughing and ordinary conversations.
One of the biggest examples of that for me was joining Gaeil na Gaillimhe, an Irish-language Gaelic football team.
That was amazing to me. It wasn’t just playing the country’s sport. It was playing the country’s sport through the country’s language.
Training through Irish. Matches through Irish. The usual shouting, encouraging, complaining, slagging and laughing that happens around football — ach trí Ghaeilge.
Bhí rud éigin speisialta faoi sin. Ní raibh an Ghaeilge á húsáid mar shiombail ná mar rud foirmiúil. Bhí sí á húsáid mar theanga fhoirne, mar theanga spóirt, mar theanga bheo.
For the first time in a while, I felt like such a Gael. Not in a dramatic or old-fashioned way, but in a very normal way. Boots on, jersey on, trying not to make a show of myself on the pitch — and doing it all through Irish.
That was what Galway started to show me. Irish did not always have to announce itself as Irish. Sometimes it was strongest when it was just there.
And then, slowly, the shock started to wear off.
Not because I lost interest in the language. The opposite. But because I was hearing and seeing it so often that it started to feel natural.
I walked past people speaking Irish and didn’t turn around. I heard Irish in a shop and kept walking. I saw Irish on signs and didn’t take a photo. It was still there, but it no longer surprised me in the same way.
Bhí mé dall uirthi.
And I think that was one of the most positive feelings I have ever had about the Irish language.
Because when you are shocked every time you hear a language, maybe that means it is not normal enough in your daily life. But when you stop being shocked, when it becomes part of the background noise, part of the street, part of sport, part of social life, maybe something more powerful is happening.
Tá sí á gnáthú.
Irish is being normalised.
And maybe that is one of the biggest goals we should have for the language. Not only that it is learned. Not only that it is protected. Not only that it is celebrated on special occasions. But that it becomes ordinary enough that a young person can walk past two people speaking it and not make a big deal of it.
That does not mean they do not care. Sometimes it means the opposite.
I love the Irish language in Armagh because it felt precious to me there. It was something me and my friends made an effort to bring into our own lives — on trains, in shops, on nights out, in jokes, in slagging, in captions and in the small stupid moments that make a language real.
And I love the Irish language in Galway because it showed me what it can look like when it becomes more visible in everyday life. When it is in the pub, the swimming pool, the football pitch, the cold dip group, the run club, the café and the conversation behind you.
It is not that one place is better than the other. They are different. They have different histories, different challenges and different energy.
In Armagh, Irish often felt to me like something being built, protected and encouraged.
In Galway, it felt like something breathing around me.
And maybe we need both.
We need the places where you hear Irish and think: "That’s class. Tá sí fós anseo."
And we need the places where you hear Irish and say nothing at all, because it feels so normal that it no longer shocks you.
That is what happened to me in Galway.
I did not lose my love for Irish. I did not stop appreciating it.
I just became blind to it for a while.
Agus, aisteach go leor, b’fhéidir gurbh é sin an uair a thuig mé í níos fearr ná riamh.
Is scoláire M.A é James Mac Éinrí in Ollscoil na Gaillimhe.
