Manchán Magan made Irish profound and important 

It was impossible to listen to him on a topic and not want to learn more about it, writes Karen McHugh 

After generations of trying to make Irish cool, Manchán did it effortlessly. In fact, he didn’t just make it cool. He made it something else — something profound, inherent, important. Picture: Marc O'Sullivan

Last year, I heard that Manchán Magan was writing a book on Ireland’s links with Iceland. Having moved to Reykjavik myself in 2023, I was intrigued and started to follow him on Instagram.

The more I read about him, the more I admired him. Manchán lived life on his own terms. Disillusioned by his time at a “dull and dreary” UCD, and depressed at not fitting into the world around him, he shunned the rat race early in life and went to Africa, travelling widely until eventually lured back by his brother with the promise of sharing his new-found knowledge in documentaries. 

He built a house made of straw in rural Westmeath 26 years ago and the rest is history. Manchán was an inspiration. For those of us who didn’t choose the traditional path in life, Manchán was proof that it was ok to be yourself. You were still worthwhile, you could still be loved. It was ok not to settle down and have the white picket fence. Maybe a straw house was just as good.

If you’re creative or think a bit differently, it can be hard — like living in another world. But watching Manchán inhabit his world with grace and confidence and live his own rich life reminded me that it was alright to do things your own way.

I was in touch briefly with Manchán in May of this year about a potential interview for the finished book, called Ireland in Iceland. Manchán was very interested in the fact that Irish would have been one of the first languages spoken in Iceland when it was settled by the Vikings over a thousand years ago.

I was struck by how kind and down to earth he was. In the end we didn’t get to do the interview. But funnily enough, our articles appeared side-by-side the next day in a weekend magazine. His about Iceland, mine about my mother’s death over a decade ago.

I didn’t know how sick he was. He later sympathised with me on how young my mother was when she died - just 55. He was the same age when he passed away. Too young, once again.

Manchán's legacy

Manchán leaves a great legacy behind — a love of the Irish language and of the land. A love that he has fostered and imbued in a whole host of people, from young to old.

Many people are well-read, but Manchán also had a passion and zeal that was infectious. As my father said — he made you feel included. He wasn’t pretentious. He was earnest and enthusiastic.

He was both the antithesis and the antidote to influencers. Manchán was the genuine article, the real deal. Brimming with knowledge, he was easy listening, easy watching.

Everyone had something good to say about him. He didn’t seem to have a bad bone in his body. He was too busy learning and telling people what he had found out.

He recently collaborated with Kneecap. After generations of trying to make Irish cool, Manchán did it effortlessly. In fact, he didn’t just make it cool. He made it something else — something profound, inherent, important. 

Somehow he taught us to love Irish without us even realising, when thousands before him had failed at the task. Maybe we just needed Manchán to draw it out. It would be impossible to listen to Manchán and not want to know more.

Manchán gave knowledge and wisdom a place again. He was an oasis of calm amid bad news stories and misinformation. You’d look forward to hearing him on the radio or TV, like his recent interview with Brendan O’Connor which stopped us all in our tracks.

A final word for Manchán

I was really sad to hear about Manchán's passing. And then I remembered a word I’d learned just the day before, in Icelandic class here in Reykjavik, looking out over the city that Manchán had recently written about.

Our Icelandic teacher, a poetry lover herself, told us she wouldn’t be in class this Friday, as she was going to a funeral. She then said she would teach us the Icelandic name for funeral. “It’s a very beautiful word,” she said. “Jarðarför.” 

She explained that it comes from the words jörð, meaning earth, and för, which means journey. Symbolically and literally, it gives the sense of going back to the ground. “It means earth journey,” she told us. “Earth trip.” 

Manchán died that night.

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With the many Irish words that Manchán had compared with Icelandic ones to look for influence and commonalities in their roots, this is an Icelandic one he might have appreciated. It seemed like the perfect word to say goodbye.

You’ve given us so many words, Manchán. Here is one for you, from Iceland. As you go on your own earth journey, back to the land you loved so much, and taught us so much about.

• Karen McHugh is a journalist and writer based in Reykjavik.