The Stowe oor Kornies

The Stowe

Vertalings in die woordeboek Engels - Kornies

An Log

voorbeelde

The Stowe
/ An Log / / /

At this point, all rational discussion ceased and the all-in brawl commenced: seasoned Aussie soldiers, including a sprinkling of recently returned Vietnam veterans, against a bunch of fresh-faced but very fit and healthy GI’s. The barmaid stowed the glasses and ducked behind the bar.
Wosa an termyn ma, y hedhis oll keskows resnel hag y feu dyllys pub jyowl mes a yffarn: soudoryon Ostralek, meur aga frevyans ha y’ga mysk nebes hensoudoryon Vietnamek, erbynn bagas soudoryon Amerikanek, fresk aga fismens mes nerthek aga heher. An vaghteth a gemmeras an gwedrennow ha plattya yn-dann an barr.

Torr growan yn Kernow yw an Geuswask (Sowsnek: the Cheesewring). Trigys yw war amal est Goon Brenn war Vre Stowe y'n bluw Lanngynhorn; yn ogas peswar mildir (6 km) dhe'n north a Lyskerrys yw. An growanek o formys yn naturel gans tewedhans. Hy hanow a dhos dhyworth hy hevelep dhe "weuswask", devis esa devnydhyes dhe wul keus.
Torr growan yn Kernow yw an Geuswask (Sowsnek: the Cheesewring). Trigys yw war amal est Goon Brenn war Vre Stowe y'n bluw Lanngynhorn; yn ogas peswar mildir (6 km) dhe'n north a Lyskerrys yw. An growanek o formys yn naturel gans tewedhans. Hy hanow a dhos dhyworth hy hevelep dhe "weuswask", devis esa devnydhyes dhe wul keus.

AN OFFICIOUS MAJOR I arranged some of the other pieces of luggage that were in the van and propped myself up against the coffin. I could hear David’s continuous grumbling but was not particularly troubled. The baggage car was extremely noisy and we were sharing it with no-one else. “So, my dear brother, grumble away!” I thought – but didn’t say so. The train was typical of the time – some of this type are still running on Victoria’s country rail-lines. A diesel locomotive with a string of faded red passenger carriages but only one allocated to ‘First Class’ (bigger, comfier seats, a bit quieter overall). The train was slow, lumbering and the carriages swayed from side to side as they made their way along tracks that had (then) not been upgraded since the Great Depression of the 1930’s. Excellent ‘Susso’ work back then, redoing the train tracks – almost as good as working on the Great Ocean Road or the Ivanhoe Boulevard. But I digress! I’m showing my age now. Confabulation is such a curse – to everyone but the confabulator! Anyway, from my personal point of view, everything was going swimmingly – until we reached Kyneton station, about an hour out of the City. “Stow my luggage in that car, Private – and be snappy about it!” These were the first words I heard come from the Major. The door of the baggage car slid open and a timorous private entered, weighed down by numerous pieces of luggage – obviously not his own. He did his best to place them inside the carriage but managed to drop one case, hitherto held under his arm. It fell to the floor with a loud thud. “You imbecile! I’ll have you court-martialled ...” And so on, in that vein, for a full two minutes – the exact time of the scheduled stop at the station. The private stood to attention and absorbed the vile invective that came from his superior officer: terrified and silent. “Get off, you fool!” he yelled at the private – who did so immediately and without question, as the train started to move. However, it was too late for the Major himself to alight from the baggage car and take his place among the other passengers (presumably, in the first-class section of the train.)
UGHKAPTEN FYSLEK Yth arayis nebes yntra’n fardellow erell esa y’n koch hag omboesa erbynn an eler. Y hyllyn klywes krodhvolans heb lett dhiworth Dhavydh. Byttegyns, nyns o hemma kudynn ragov. Koch-fardellow o trosek dres eghenn ha nyns esen orth y gevrenna gans dus erell. “Ytho, ow broder ker, gwra pesya krodhvolas, mar pleg,” a brederis vy – heb leverel geryow vyth. Kemmyn o furv an tren y’n termyn na. Yn hwir, yth esa hwath nebes trenow a’n furv ma ow resek war linennow-bow yn Budhykka: margh-tan disel ow tenna plethenn kochow rudh diliwys. Nyns esa saw onan anedha verkys ‘Kynsa Renk’. (Moy y es, yth o brassa ha nebes kosella). An tren o lent, bras ha poes. Y hwayas an kochow dhiworth unn du dh’y gila hag i gyllys a-hys an linennow (na fia gwellhes – ena - a-ban oes an Kyldro Meur a’n blydhynnyow 1930. Ober ‘Susso’ (sosten) pur dha o y’n termynyow na, daswrians an linennow: ober mar dha (po ogas) dell oberi war Fordh Veur an Mor po war Rosva Ayvanhow. Byttegyns, yth esov ow kwandra! Yth esov ow tiskwedhes ow bloedh lemmyn. Kesrakkoryon yw molleth, a nyns i? (Dhe bubonan oll a-der an kesrakker!) Yn neb kas, y’m breus vy, yth esa puptra oll ow mos yn ta – bys pan dhrehedhsyn gorsav Kyneton, wosa ogas dhe’n our. “Gwra gorra ow fardellow y’n koch na – ha gwra fyski!” An re na o an kynsa geryow a glywis ow tos dhiworth an Ughkapten. Daras an koch-fardellow a slynkyas apert hag yth entras ynno souder, meur y own, ankombrys gans lies fardell – nag o, yn apert, dhodho ev. Ev a wrug y wella rag aga gorra war leur an koch mes y hesis koedha onan anedha re via synsys yn-dann y vregh. Koedhys a wrug ev gans boemm ughel. “Folwas! My a’th worr a-dherag breuslys an lu ...” An Ughkapten a besyas yn geryow a’n par na dres dew vynysenn dien – termyn ewn an powes orth an orsav na. Yth esa an souder a’y sav yn attendyans hag ev degemmerys, ownek ha didros, an kabel tynn a dheuth diworth y soedhek. “Diyskynn lemmyn, tywokki!” a armas an Ughkapten dhe’n souder. An huni diwettha a wrug yndella a-dhistowgh ha heb govynn, hag an tren dallethys gwaya. Byttegyns, re diwettha o rag an Ughkapten y honan dhe dhiyskynna dhiworth an koch-fardellow rag kemmeres y le yntra’n dremenysi erell an kynsa renkas.

EPILOGUE Though I shed no tears for Puckapunyal’s very own Angel of Death, David’s conduct simply could not go on. He needed a change of diet – and soon. Within a matter of days, we had moved from the Scrub Hill area (having safely stowed Dr Mengele’s remains deep within the tunnel complex) and relocated ourselves to a lusher part of the Victorian forest, more suited to our needs. (I’ve always like ‘The High Country’ – very remote, very undisturbed.) I’ll not trouble you with the trials and tribulations of that relocation. Suffice it to say, we made it there – and no-one else got eaten along the way. I took time out to re-learn the spear-making skills I had learned while hunting small prey along the Darebin Creek as a child. (And, yes, I do have many hidden talents). Within weeks, and before I starved, I became adept at catching the plentiful game that existed in our new home.) I could not interest David in food from the local waterways – fish, mussels and yabbies (yum!) – but, with time and practice, another, more palatable option eventually came onto the menu: chubby, young wallaby. Did David take easily to the lean, red meat of the wallaby? No, it took time and patience on my part, a lot of time and patience. He refused this option for a great deal of time – and I had to put up with many zombie tantrums. (I really have decided that zombies have much in common with two-year-olds). Eventually, however, he would trail along behind me as I hunted and, once I had speared a wallaby, he would sprint off through the bush and hungrily fall upon it – just as he had done with Captain Doctor Mengele. Oh, happy days! One day, as we sat contentedly munching upon our latest (bloody) wallaby feast, I turned to David and said: “How do you feel about Papua New Guinea? I hear they’ve got some lovely, but very slow, tree-kangaroos there.” David grunted loudly – I thought he might yet warm to the idea.
PENNLAVAR Kyn na yllyn dagrewi rag El an Mernans Pukkapunyal, ny allsa omdhegyans Davydh pesya. Res o dhodho chanjya y vegyans – ha skonna galla. Wosa nebes dydhyow, ni re assa tiryow Bre an Krann (ni re worrsa korf Mengele yn salow a-berth y’n gowfordhow). Ni re dhasomgavsa dhe sugnekka rann an gwylvos a Vudhykka, moy delledhys dh’agan edhommow. (My re garas pup-prys ‘An Pow Ughel’ – kosel ha meur y bellder dhiworth an sita.) Ny vynnav agas veksya gans govisyon hag anken a dheuth dhyn ni dres an vyaj dhiworth Bre an Krann. Lowr yw leverel, ni a sewenas – hag nyns esa nebonan arall a veu dybrys a-hys an fordh na. My a gemmeras termyn lowr rag dasdhyki dell vydh gwrys guwow. My re gavsa kyns an skians ma pan o flogh, ow helghya preydh byghan war lannow Heylynn Darebin. (Hag, ya, yma dhymm lies roas kudhys.) Wosa nebes seythunyow – mes kyns ow famyans – my eth ha bos skentel yn kachyans an eghennow pals a am a allsa bos kevys y’gan tre nowydh.) Ny yllyn gul Davydh didheurys y’n boes a dheuth dhiworth an avonyow ena – pysk, meskel, gryllas-avon (myamm-myamm!) – byttegyns, wosa termyn lowr ha lies assayans, y teuth dewis arall, nebes blesys da dhe Dhavydh: wollabi tew ha yowynk. A brederis Davydh a-dhistowgh blas kig wollabi dhe vos da, kig rudh ha kough? Na brederis. Res o dhymm termyn ha perthyans, meur a dermyn ha meur a berthyans. Ev a skonyas an dewis ma dres termyn hir – ha res o dhymm godhevel lies kedrynn ha steryks-zombi. (Dhe wir, my re erviras bos meur a daklow yn kemmyn yntra zombis ha fleghes mayth esa dew vloedh.) Wor’tiwedh, byttegyns, ev a wrussa sywya a-dhelergh dhymmo vy ha my ow helghya, ha pan frappsen wollabi gans guw, ev a ressa yn uskis der an gwylvos ha koedha yn kraf warnodho – kepar dell wrussa dhe Gapten Doktour Mengele. Ass o lowen an dydhyow na! Unn jydh, ha ni a’gan esedh, ow densel orth agan diwettha kevywi a wollabi (goesek), my a dreylyas dhe Dhavydh ha leverel: “Fatell via genes Papoua Gyni Nowydh? My a gonvedh bos ena kangourous a drig y’n gwydh. Yth ons teg mes pur lent.” Davydh a roghas yn ughel – martesen, da a via ganso an tybyans ma.