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2 Hawthorne Literature- A to Z

An Irish Country Doctor

by

An Irish Country Doctor Cover

ISBN13: 9780765319951
ISBN10: 0765319950
Condition: Standard
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Excerpt

Authors Note
 
Doctor Fingal Flahertie OReilly and the denizens of Ballybucklebo first appeared in 1995 in my monthly column in Stitches: The Journal of Medical Humour. It was suggested to me that these characters might form the foundation for a novel.
 
I had just finished Pray for Us Sinners, and hesitating to delve once more into the misery of the Ulster Troubles, I found the idea of something lighter to be appealing. An Irish Country Doctor began to take shape.
 
Like Only Wounded and Pray for Us Sinners, the book is set in the northeast corner of Ireland, but unlike its predecessors, which I strove to make historically accurate, this story has taken some liberties with geography and time.
 
The setting is a fictional village, the name of which came from my high-school French teacher who, enraged by my inability to conjugate irregular verbs, yelled, “Taylor, youre stupid enough to come from Ballybucklebo.” Those of an etymological bent may wish to know what the name means. Bally (Irish, baile) is a townland—a mediaeval geographic term encompassing a small village and the surrounding farms, Buachaill means “boy,” and bó is a cow. In Bailebuchaillbó, or Ballybucklebo—the townland of the boys cow—time and place are as skewed as they are in Brigadoon.
 
Little Irish is spoken in the North, but I have been at pains to use the Ulster dialect. It is rich and colourful, but often incomprehensible to one not from that part of the world. For those who may have some difficulty, I have taken the liberty of appending a glossary (page 345).
 
My attention to the spoken idiom is as accurate as I can make it; however, the purist will note that in 1964, the Twelfth of July fell on a Sunday, not a Thursday, and Seamus Heaneys first book of poetry was not published until 1966. No salmon river called the Bucklebo flows through north County Down. The nearest is the Shimna River in the Mourne Mountains. But everything else is as accurate as extensive reading and memory permit.
 
The rural Ulster that I have portrayed has vanished. The farms and villages still look much as they did, but the simplicity of rural life has been banished by the Troubles and the all-pervasive influence of television. The automatic respect for their learning shown to those at the top of the village hierarchy—doctor, teacher, minister, and priest—is a thing of the past, but men like OReilly were common when I was a very junior doctor. And on that subject, may I please lay to rest a question I am frequently asked by readers of my column in Stitches? Barry Laverty and Patrick Taylor are not one and the same. Doctor F. F. OReilly is a figment of my troubled mind, despite the efforts of some of my expatriate Ulster friends to see in him a respected—if unorthodox—medical practitioner of the time. Lady Macbeth does owe her being to our demoniacally possessed cat, Minnie, and Arthur Guinness owes his to a black Labrador, now long gone but who had an insatiable thirst for Fosters lager. All the other characters are composites, drawn from my imagination and from my experiences as a rural GP.
 
Patrick Taylor
 
1
 
You Cant Get There
 
from Here
 
Barry Laverty—Doctor Barry Laverty—his housemans year just finished, ink barely dry on his degree, pulled his beat-up Volkswagen Beetle to the side of the road and peered at a map lying on the passenger seat. Six Road Ends was clearly marked. He stared through the cars insect-splattered windscreen. Judging by the maze of narrow country roads that ran one into the other just up ahead, somewhere at the end of one of those blackthorn-hedged byways lay the village of Ballybucklebo. But which road should he take? And, he reminded himself, there was more to that question than simple geography.
 
Most of his graduating classmates from the medical school of the Queens University of Belfast had clear plans for their careers. But he hadnt a clue. General practice? Specialize? And if so, which speciality? Barry shrugged. He was twenty-four, single, no responsibilities. He knew he had all the time in the world to think about his medical future, but his immediate prospects might not be bright if he were late for his five oclock appointment, and though finding a direction for his life might be important, his most pressing need was to earn enough to pay off the loan on the car.
 
He scowled at the map and retraced the road he had travelled from Belfast, but the Six Road Ends lay near the margin of the paper. No Ballybucklebo in sight. What to do?
 
He looked up, and as he did he glimpsed himself in the rearview mirror. Blue eyes looked back at him from a clean-shaven oval face. His tie was askew. No matter how carefully he tied the thing, the knot always managed to wander off under one collar tip. He understood the importance of first impressions and did not want to look scruffy. He tugged the tie back into place, then tried to smooth down the cowlick on the crown of his fair hair, but up it popped. He shrugged. It would just have to stay that way. He wasnt going to a beauty contest—it was his medical credentials that would be scrutinized. At least his hair was cut short, not like the style affected by that new musical group, the Beatles.
 
One last glance at the map confirmed that it would be of no help in finding his destination. Perhaps, he thought, there would be a signpost at the junction. He got out of the vehicle, and the springs creaked. Brunhilde, as he called his car, was protesting about the weight of his worldly goods: two suitcases, one with his meagre wardrobe, the other crammed with medical texts; a doctors medical bag tucked under the bonnet; and a fly rod, creel, and hip waders lying in the backseat. Not much to show for someone possessing a medical degree, he thought, but with any luck his finances would soon take a turn for the better—if he could just find Ballybucklebo.
 
He leant against the car door, conscious that his five-foot-eight, slightly built frame barely gave him enough height to peer over Brunhildes domed roof, and even standing on tiptoe he could see no evidence of a signpost. Perhaps it was hidden behind the hedges.
 
He walked to the junction and looked around to find a grave deficiency of signposts. Maybe Ballybucklebos like Brigadoon, he thought, and only appears every hundred years. Id better start humming “How Are Things in Glocca Morra?” and hope to God one of the little people shows up to give me directions.
 
He walked back to the car in the warmth of the Ulster afternoon, breathing in the gorses perfume from the little fields at either side of the road. He heard the liquid notes of a blackbird hiding in the fuchsia that grew wild in the hedgerow, the flowers drooping purple and scarlet in the summer air. Somewhere a cow lowed in basso counterpoint to the blackbirds treble.
 
Barry savoured the moment. He might be unclear about what his future held, but one thing was certain. Nothing could ever persuade him that there was anywhere, anywhere at all, he would choose to live other than here in Northern Ireland.
 
No map, no signpost, and no little people, he thought as he approached the car. Ill just have to pick a road and . . . He was pleasantly surprised to see a figure mounted on a bicycle crest the low hill and pedal sedately along the road.
 
“Excuse me.” Barry stepped into the path of the oncoming cyclist. “Excuse me.” The cyclist wobbled, braked, and stood, one foot on the ground and the other on a pedal. For a moment Barry wondered if his hopes of meeting a leprechaun had been fulfilled. “Good afternoon,” he said.
 
He was addressing a gangly youth, innocent face half hidden under a Paddy hat, but not hidden well enough to disguise a set of buckteeth that Barry decided would be the envy of every hare in the Six Counties. He carried a pitchfork over one shoulder and wore a black worsted waistcoat over a collarless shirt. His tweed trousers were tied at the knees with leather thongs that the locals called “nicky tams.”
 
“Grand day,” he remarked.
 
“It is.”
 
“Och, aye. Grand. Hays coming along fine, so it is.” The youth picked his nose.
 
“I wonder if you could help me?”
 
“Aye?” The cyclist lifted his hat and scratched his ginger hair. “Maybe.”
 
“Im looking for Ballybucklebo.”
 
“Ballybucklebo?” His brow knitted, and the head scratching increased.
 
“Can you tell me how to get there?”
 
“Ballybucklebo?” He pursed his lips. “Boys-a-boys, thons a grand wee place, so it is.”
 
Barry tried not to let his growing exasperation show. “Im sure it is, but I have to get there by five.”
 
“Five? Today, like?”
 
“Mmm.” Barry bit back the words “No. In the year 2000.” He waited.
 
The youth fumbled in the fob pocket of his waistcoat, produced a pocketwatch, and consulted it, frowning and muttering to himself. He looked at Barry. “Five? Youve no much time left.”
 
“I know that. If you could just—”
 
“Ballybucklebo?”
 
“Please?”
 
“Och, aye.” He pointed to the road that lay straight ahead. “Take that road.”
 
“That one?”
 
“Aye. Follow your nose til you come to Willy John McCoubreys red barn.”
 
“Red barn. Right.”
 
“Now you dont turn there.”
 
“Oh.”
 
“Not at all. Keep right on. Youll see a black-and-white cow in a field—unless Willy John has her in the red barn for milking. Now go past her, and take the road to your right.” As he spoke, the youth pointed to the left side of the road.
 
Barry felt a mite confused. “First right past the black-and-white cow?”
 
“Thats her,” he said, continuing to point to the left. “From there on, its only a wee doddle. Mind you, sir . . .” He started to mount his rusty machine. Then he delivered the rest of the sentence with the solemnity of a priest giving the Benediction: “. . . if Id been you, I wouldnt have tried to get to Ballybucklebo from here in the first place.”
 
Barry looked sharply at his companion. The youths face showed not the least suggestion that he had been anything other than serious.
 
“Thank you,” said Barry, stifling his desire to laugh. “Thank you very much. Oh, and by the way, you wouldnt happen to know the doctor there?”
 
The youths eyebrows shot upwards. His eyes widened, and he let go a long low whistle before he said, “Himself? Doctor OReilly? By God, I do, sir. In soul, I do.” With that, he mounted and pedalled furiously away.
 
Barry climbed into Brunhilde and wondered why his advisor had suddenly taken flight at the mere mention of Doctor OReilly. Well, he thought, if Willy Johns cow was in the right field, hed soon find out. His appointment at five was with none other than Doctor Fingal Flahertie OReilly.
 

Copyright © 2004, 2007 by Patrick Taylor. All rights reserved

 
 
 
 

What Our Readers Are Saying

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Average customer rating based on 3 comments:

waynej1, January 31, 2013 (view all comments by waynej1)
Totally funny, wonderfully created characters and description of rural life in Ireland totally exciting. The interaction of characters and drama's that develop exciting and funny
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Emily Lehman, July 15, 2008 (view all comments by Emily Lehman)
Such a charming and sweet book in a perfect rainy day and curl up kind of way. Each chapter has an amusing episode and the pages fly past. I'm a sucker for small town irish stories, and this is my new favorite.
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(8 of 14 readers found this comment helpful)
bookworm97885, March 23, 2008 (view all comments by bookworm97885)
Light, easy, funny, heartwarming. I enjoyed this book through and through. The author writes so visually that at times I thought I could smell the tea and the green rolling grassy hills. I sure hope the author continues with these characters, I'd hate to think I've seen the last of any of them.
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(3 of 3 readers found this comment helpful)
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Product Details

ISBN:
9780765319951
Author:
Taylor, Patrick
Publisher:
Forge
Subject:
General Fiction
Subject:
General
Subject:
Physicians
Subject:
Country life
Subject:
Humorous
Subject:
Northern Ireland
Subject:
Medical
Subject:
Family life
Subject:
Literature-A to Z
Copyright:
Edition Description:
Trade Paper
Series:
Irish Country Books
Series Volume:
1 of 7
Publication Date:
20080131
Binding:
TRADE PAPER
Grade Level:
General/trade
Language:
English
Illustrations:
Y
Pages:
352
Dimensions:
8.23 x 5.55 x 0.95 in

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Featured Titles » Literature
Fiction and Poetry » Literature » A to Z
Fiction and Poetry » Literature » Family Life

An Irish Country Doctor Used Trade Paper
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$5.95 In Stock
Product details 352 pages Forge - English 9780765319951 Reviews:
"Publishers Weekly Review" by , "An Irish Country Doctor makes for escapist, delightful fun." Publishers Weekly
"Review" by , "Ballybucklebo is an easy place for readers to sink into, with likable characters and atmospheric dialogue."
"Review" by , "An Irish Country Doctor deals with eccentric, funny humans, dogs, cats and cattle. This book is written with compassion and hilarity about a community whose inhabitants are as wonderful and loony as any on earth....A grand read from a grand man."
"Review" by , "At last! Here is an authentic Northern Ireland voice telling down-to-earth stories that could happened anywhere on the island....Quirky, funny, and deeply moving by turns, Taylor's writing perfectly captures the language and character of Ulster in times gone by."
"Synopsis" by ,
A warm and enchanting New York Times bestseller in the tradition of James Herriot and Jan Karon
"Synopsis" by ,
Barry Laverty, M.B., can barely find the village of Ballybucklebo on a map when he first sets out to seek gainful employment there, but already he knows that there is nowhere he would rather live than in the emerald hills and dales of Northern Ireland. The proud owner of a spanking-new medical degree and little else in the way of worldly possessions, Barry jumps at the chance to secure a position as an assistant in a small rural practice.

At least until he meets Dr. Fingal Flahertie OReilly.

The older physician, whose motto is to never let the patients get the upper hand, has his own way of doing things. At first, Barry cant decide if the pugnacious OReilly is the biggest charlatan he has ever met, or the best teacher he could ever hope for. Through OReilly Barry soon gets to know all of the villages colorful and endearing residents, including:

 

A malingering Major and his equally hypochondriacal wife;

 

An unwed servant girl, who refuses to divulge the father of her upcoming baby;

 

A slightly daft old couple unable to marry for lack of a roof;

 

And a host of other eccentric characters who make every day an education for the inexperienced young doctor.

 

Ballybucklebo is long way from Belfast, and Barry is quick to discover that he still has a lot to learn about the quirks and traditions of country life. But with pluck and compassion and only the slightest touch of blarney, he will find out more about life—and love—than he ever imagined back in medical school.

An Irish Country Doctor is a charming and engrossing tale that will captivate readers from the very first page—and leave them yearning to visit the Irish countryside of days gone by.

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