The Beautiful Princess and the Oily River

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess who lived amongst the rolling green hills of Ireland. She loved to meander from bank to bank chattering to the fish, admiring the wild flowers while turning her beautiful shining face towards the gorgeous blue sky. As she meandered through the countryside all creatures came to her for her beauty was irresistible, her bubbling chatter a delight to the ear, and her very presence refreshing and life giving. In this manner, loving all and loved by all, she idled away many a day in perfect bliss.

Then one day, a foreigner sighted the beautiful princess amongst the rolling green hills. The foreigner was a cartographer by trade and thus it was in his nature to love the land and the names associated with places he visited. As he travelled, he would map his journey in a small brown notebook, naming each place according to the custom of the locals he encountered. The cartographer was now so taken with the beauty of the princess that he determined he would be the possessor of her name. Once the knowledge of her name was his, he would record it in his book as a reminder of the place where he had first beheld her beauty. He sent his messenger, for he was on a journey of exploration and was equipped by his King with many helpers, to find out the name of this beautiful young princess with the following instructions:

“Go and determine the name of the beautiful princess I have seen meandering amongst the rolling green hills. She intrigues me. I will not rest until I know her name. Her beauty is exquisite and exotic. It is so in keeping with the beauty of the land that I would love to record her name here in my book so that I can always remember the place at which I first beheld her beauty. Go and do not delay, for the desire to possess this knowledge is such within me that I shall not be able to rest until I have her name, nay, herself, immortalised in my book. I must record her wild beauty so all may appreciate her. Go now and return to me without delay!”

So the servant went. He tore a path across the hills trampling many a rare flower under foot in his haste to find the beautiful maiden. He soon found the beautiful princess in her usual place chattering with the fish.

“Excuse me, Miss,” puffed the messenger quite out of breath. The beautiful princess looked up turning her shining face towards the one who had addressed her and with a pleasant countenance bid him speak.

“I am sent to ask your name,” the messenger continued. “My master requests the knowledge of your name. He is much besotted with you and desires to know the name by which you are known.”

“Tell your master, I am known as Áille,” stated the princess in a voice as pure, clear and melodious as a babbling stream through a meadow.

“I must thank you kindly, Miss, and thus depart,” said the messenger bowing and backing away, “For my master is so desirous of knowing your name that I fear he will not tolerate any delay. Thank you again,” he said bowing once again in courtesy beginning his journey back to the cartographer even as the words were still upon his tongue.

He was afraid to lose time and encounter the anger of the cartographer, for the master was answerable to the King and the King had sent the men on a mission to document every crevice of the landscape in this foreign land and had not given them enough time to comply. The King could be a harsh ruler. And so, the messenger raced back to his master’s lodgings as fast as he could. Indeed, the messenger made good time and before sunset he was able to report his findings to the cartographer.

“So, have you obtained the name of the beautiful maiden who meanders through the green hills?” asked the cartographer leaning forward eagerly tantalised by the realisation that he was about to possess that which he so eagerly desired.

“Her name, dear Sir, is Oily,” announced the messenger.

“Oily?” questioned the cartographer.

“Yes, Sir. Oily.”

“Oily,” sighed the cartographer somewhat deflated. “But that’s not beautiful. That is not exotic! That is not the name for a beautiful princess! Argh!” The cartographer stood up, stamped his foot and stormed out of the room cursing as he went. “Oily! I cannot love anything known as ‘Oily!’” Then, turning back towards the messenger, he ordered him to, “Record the name of the place where my love for all that is beautiful was smeared as Oily and let us move on. We have much more work to do and I have developed a sudden abhorrence for this place. Oily, indeed!”

So the obedient messenger wrote the word ‘Oily’ on the map next to the river where he had found the beautiful princess speaking to the fish and thus named one of the most beautiful places on earth -- Oily.



This story was inspired by a lecture given by Coilin Parsons, Word Maps: J.M. Synge’s Prose Writings and the Ordinance Survey, in which he related the sad tale of the Áille River in Ireland being Anglicised and recorded as the Oily River by British cartographers and orthographers due to the similar sound of the words. Sadly, due to the lack of time to complete the task with accuracy the meaning of the two words was overlooked. So a river which was known as the Áille, meaning the beautiful princess, became an Oily river. It is a sad reminder of the importance of ethics in translation.

Irish President, Mary Mc Aleese's, in an interview with Miranda Moore reminds us "There's a lovely expression 'a country without a language is a country without a soul.'" She then goes on to share her childhood memories of the Oily ; a river she would pass on her way to Irish Lessons. Moore writes:

McAleese first learnt Irish at school but continues to study every year at summer school in Gleann Cholm Cille. There is a river up in Donegal that she passes on her way to the school, which reminds her of the significance of language. Set in the Irish-speaking heartland of the Emerald Isle, the river, she says, is marked 'The Oily River'. Passion pushes through the President's conservative blue-suited appearance, and her soft Irish lilt quickens with indignation. "Now if you saw a sign for the oily river would you take out your fishing rod? Would you put on your swimming togs and go for a swim in it? Would you? I mean the word 'oily' yuck! It has you shivering", and the President visibly shudders, running her fingers up and down her arms. The word 'oily', she explains, comes from the Irish word alainn, meaning beautiful, "and some prat translated that as 'oily'!"

Is it any wonder Declan Kiberd refers to the mapping of the Irish landscape by the British forces as a deracination.