man of aran

I sat on a little stone wall, meditating on scutch grass fields and tumble down cottages, that are the ancestral home to an island race.
This is Aran.
An island off the west coast of Ireland which holds something of the soul of all of us,
Here the Irish language is still spoken.
Here men still batter wind and waves to scrape a living from rock.
Here the ancient is but yesterday.
I sat,
Mists, and rain and breezes about me.
From somewhere not too far away a low keening singing broke out.
A peasant song.
Something ancient.
I listened desperately to discern the words.
I speak school Irish but I'm not quite on top of the lingo spoken here.
If only I could discern it.
The singer approached up a sunken lane.
He was a little boy, maybe eight years old.
His song became knowable to my ears.
He was singing:
"Glory, glory Man United."
He halted in front of me.
"Do you like Man United?" he enquired.
"Oh yes, up Man United," I answered.
Well satisfied the little boy continued up the bohreen still singing lustily his ancient Gaelic eulogy to Sir Matt Busby, Roy Keane, Eric Cantona, Ryan Giggs, Oleg Gunnar Solksjaerr and the other heroes of that Celtic Valhalla the ancients still call Old Trafford.