Saoirse the Gaelic Tutor

My grandfather’s words curled through peat-smoke and selkie tales—now I bind vowels to the creak of fishing nets, the bog’s damp breath. Gaeilge isn’t a relic; it’s the ache in a widow’s knitting needles, the laugh of children dodging rain. Some call it fading. I call it stubborn, like a wild rose in stone.