Ye Banks and Braes of Bonnie Bucklebo 
(With Apologies to Burns R.)

By Patrick Taylor

Ballybucklebo, home of Dr. Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly and an assorted cast of characters whose intellects on their communal best days would make the inmates of the old bedlam Asylum look like a collection of dons from a Cambridge college. Ballybucklebo, site of my introduction to the art and craft of medicine - if not to the science. Ballybucklebo, a name to conjure with and a name that has led my loyal reader to inquire, just what the hell does it mean?

In truth, Irish place names can be a mite confusing to the foreigner. There is a plethora of Kil - something-or-others, Drum - what-do-you-m’callums and Bally - this-that-and-the-other-things. A smattering of knowledge of the origins of the prefixes can cast a little light on the matter. And as those of you who have accompanied me through the darker places of Ballybucklebo well know, illumination of anything pertaining to that particularly peculiar place can only be to our mutual advantage.

TS Elliot, who may very well have had Ballybucklebo in mind when he wrote "The Wasteland", was quite particular in his instructions for "The Naming of Cats." I, in my turn, will now dilate further on the naming of Irish locales. Kil simply means the church of, so Kiltoom is the church of the burial mound. Drum is ridge, bo is cow. Drumbo - cow ridge. Bally is the townland - an old feudal method of establishing the boundaries of the countryside surrounding a particular geographical feature. Bally was also used as a polite euphemism for "bloody" leading to a popular verbal play on real place name; "If you hadn’t been so Ballymena with your Ballymoney you’d have a Ballycastle for your Ballyholme. " But I digress.

What about Ballybuckelbo? All right. Bally-townland, Buckle, or in Irish Buachail-boy, Bo-those with retentive memories will already have learned that Bo means cow. Ballybucklebo-the townland of the boy’s cow. Quite simple really.

Well, actually it’s not and I am sure that comes as no surprise. In fact, the village had grown up on the banks of the River Bucklebo where legend had it a great calamity had befallen an invading English army, a calamity precipitated by a wandering cow which had magically distracted the Sassenach troops at a crucial point during the statutory clashing of halberds, swords, axes, maces and other macabre methods of mediaeval mayhem. The date of the awful affray is lost in the mists of Celtic twilight, but in Ireland, history has a habit of repeating itself, and it was on the banks of that very Bucklebo that I witnessed the downfall of another English invader - not at the hands of the Irish but from the actions of one Angus MacKay, Scot, shepherd, piper extraordinaire and Highland gentleman.

I’ll tell you about it.

O’Reilly had gone to Belfast, ostensibly to attend a postgraduate course. Knowing him as you do, you will not doubt have surmised that while his cerebrum might be mildly stimulate, his tonsils would undoubtedly receive a thorough inundation and his liver a workout of gargantuan proportions. While my mentor was off besporting himself, I had been left in charge of the practice and, Lord help them - the health of the local citizenry.

I stuck my head into the waiting room expecting to summon Angus MacKay. I’d noticed him coming in some time ago and by my reckoning he should have been my last patient of the afternoon.

Instead, I was greeted by a stranger who addressed me in the plummy accents of an English public school.

"You must be the local quack, what?"

"I’m Dr. Taylor," I replied, noting his three-piece suit, old school tie, watery eyes and distinct lack of chin.

"Taylor? Oh. His Lordship - I’m Cholmondely, guest of the FitzGurgles, you know - His Lordship said I should consult a Dr. O’Reilly."

"I’m sorry," I said, "Dr. O’Reilly has gone to Belfast. He’ll be back tomorrow."

"Blast! Can’t wait ‘til then." He grimaced. "Oh well, I’ll just have to make do. Beggars can’t be choosers, what?"

"I’ll do what I can," I said, as civilly as I could, "but Mr. MacKay," I nodded at Angus who had been sitting quietly, and clearly observing the exchange, "has been here for rather a long time. If you’d care to wait, I’ll…"

"Wait? Don’t be ridiculous. This fellow won’t mind hanging on, will you, my good man?"

"Chust so," said Angus quietly, but knowing him as I did I could tell that he was remembering Bannockburn, the battle where King Robert of Scotland took the gold, silver and bronze and left King Edward of England holding nothing but a few splinters from the wooden spoon. It is generally recommended that blunt sticks not be forcibly inserted into the orbits of rabid dogs, but perhaps the newcomer had not learnt the parallel between such activities and the act of patronizing a Highland Scot.

"Come along, Doctor," the newcomer said, then he turned to Angus. "Won’t take a jiffy, old boy."

I stole a glance at Angus, who nodded.

Once in the surgery, I dealt with Cholmondely’s medical difficulties. I have no doubt Hippocrates would not have approved of my secret delight when I discovered that the man had a case of inflamed hemorrhoids.

"Here you are," I said, handing him a prescription for an anti-inflammatory cream.

He did have the courtesy to thank me. He rose. "One more thing," he said, "did I by any chance hear you refer to that chappie next door as MacKay?"

"Yes."

"Small world. He must be a the laddie his Lordship mentioned. I’m over for the fishing, d’you see."

I did see. Lord FitzGurgle owned the fishing rights to a large stretch of the 

Bucklebo, and Angus, when not occupied with his sheep, worked as a ghillie, tending to the waters, the salmon therein and guiding his Lordship’s guests.

"Better have a word with him," the Englishman said, heading for the waiting room. I followed. The upcoming conversation could be interesting.

"So, MacKay" said Cholmondely. "Hear you’re a very fine ghillie."

"Aye." Angus’s mien was as expressionless as a Highland tarn in a flat calm.

"Excellent. His Lordship says you’ll take me on the water tomorrow - at nine."

"Chust so," said Angus, "if that is what the chentleman wants. But the Bucklebo’s in spate chust now."

"My good man, I’m here to fish and fish I will. I’ll expect you on the bank at nine. Clear?"

"Aye," said Angus. He hesitated. "Doctor, sir, is tomorrow your day off?"

"Yes, Angus."

A twinkle flashed into the steely eyes of the little Scot, an unholy twinkle that would have dimmed the fires of hell.

"You’d not mind, sir, if Dr. Taylor came with us? He enjoys the river bank."

"Bring who you like," said Cholmondely, "but remember one thing. I am a very expert fisherman and I do not like being advised unless I ask for information. Is that clear?"

"Och aye, sir," said Angus. "Och aye."

Angus and I arrived at the banks of the Bucklebo promptly at 8:55. There was no sign of Mr. Cholmondely.

"Would you look at that sir?" Angus pointed at the river. Yesterday, he’d said it was in spate. Today, judging by the way the brown waters tossed and roiled, somewhere upstream there was a large gopher-wood vessel, inhabited by pairs of animals and skippered by an older, bearded gentleman in long flowing robes - a gentleman who had decided that despite the return of a dove with an olive branch he’d better wait until the very last of the deluge had dissipated - down the course of the Bucklebo.

Angus’ mein was utterly devoid of gruntle. "He’ll no take a fish in yon."

My muttered agreement was interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Cholmondely, dressed, as I could only suppose he imagined an expert fisherman should be. His tweed deerstalker was so festooned with flies that it had the appearance of an exotic tropical parrot having a bad feather day in a high wind. His tweed suit, hacking jacket and plus-four pants, was complemented by a pair of tartan socks that could only have been knitted by someone from the very-post-impressionist school. Over his shoulder was slung a wicker creel and he carried a rod with the dimensions of one of those old growth Canadian pines.

"Morning," he said, hefting his rod, "should do well today."

I watched Angus. I could tell he was wrestling with his conscience. His duty as a ghillie was to do his utmost to provide the guest with the best day’s fishing possible. His instructions were not to proffer advice. His ethics won.

"Sir, you see the water. Maybe, at the edge, with the wee rod." Angus offered a slim fly rod, "you might take a trout or two."

Cholmondely bristled. "When I want your advice, MacKay, I’ll ask for it. This," he struggled to wave his own rod, "this is double-handed Spey rod."

"Aye," said Angus, "I ken that."

"Just you watch." At that Cholmondely, grasping his angle in a two-handed grip, began hurling casts at the swollen waters. He thrashed at the river with the enthusiasm of a Nelsonic bos’n laying on the cat-o-nine-tails. His face reddened. Rivulets of sweat coursed from under his deerstalker. His back casts fouled in trees, rushes and just missed an inquisitive cow which had wandered down to observe.

I wondered idly if the befuddled bovine might not be a distant descendant of the long ago bo - the one whose presence had led to the downfall of the Sassenachs.

Angus dutifully untangled the line, and kept his counsel - for an hour - then he ventured, "Perhaps, sir, if you tried this wee fly rod…"

"MacKay. I do not - not - need any advice from you."

At that the rod tip flickered. Had he hooked a fish after all?

Cholmondely began to reel in. The rod was definitely under some tension. I looked sympathetically at Angus but was rewarded with a tiny smile and an inclination of the little man’s head that said, more loudly than any words, "Wait and see."

Finally, after much reeling-in, a fish broke the surface close to the bank. It was a salmon parr, an immature fish the size of an over-developed minnow. It’s ordinarily tiny ability to put up a fight had been boosted by the force of the water.

Cholmondely cranked on until all the line was in and the tiddler-flapped weakly at the rod tip some 15 feet above the breathless Cholmondely’s head.

"Now, my good man," he huffed, "what shall I do now?"

Angus bent slowly, picked up a fair-sized stone from the bank of the Bucklebo, handed it to Cholmondely and said in dulcet tones, "If I was you, sir, I’d shinny up yon great rod - and beat the wee thing to death with this."
 
 

Canadian Patrick Taylor, whose delightful stories about Dr. O’Reilly and his home village are regularly published in The Irish American Post, can be reached at editere@shaw.ca