Day Sixteen

An Whetegves Dedh

De Merher, an seythdegvas (seytegves) dedh a vis Genver ew. Thera vy o scrifa an radn ma en mettin avarr. Whath thew dû an eborn. Ma’n gwens o whetha oll adro dhe’n chei. Me ell clowes (klewes) an flehes dhort an bargen tir o kerres (kerdhes) reb an chei. Anjei a wra kemeres aga buss dhe scol.

It’s Wednesday, the seventeenth day of January. I am writing this part early in the morning. The sky is still dark. The wind is blowing all round the house. I can hear the children from the farm walking by the house. They are going to get their bus to school.

Thew moy diwettha lebmyn. Me a veras mes dhe’n lôwarth. Soweth, ma clos war an leur. Whethys veu va dhe’n dor gans an gwens. Sqwachys ew. Onpossybyl ew y dherevel arta. Ma odhom dhen a roos metol po plastek et y le. 

It’s later now. I looked out to the garden. Sadly, there is a fence panel on the ground. It was blown down by the wind. It’s smashed. It’s impossible to put it up again. We need metal or plastic netting instead.

Eseles Bagas Art Truru oma. Thera vy longya dhe scrifa lether nowodhow. Ma cuntellyans an gordhûher ma (disqwedhyans gen lymner oyl), saw na ellama moas. Clàv o vy. Res vedh dhe’n cothmans vy scrifa an derivas.

I’m a member of Truro Art Society. I usually (I belong to) write a newsletter. There is a meeting this evening (a demonstration by an oil painter), but I can’t go. I’m ill. My friends will have to write the report.