Patrick Taylor

Excerpt from Chapter 1
Barry Laverty, Doctor Barry Laverty, his houseman’s year just finished, ink barely dry on his degree, pulled his ancient Volkswagen Beetle to the side of the road and peered at a map lying on the passenger’s seat. “Six Road Ends” was clearly marked. He stared through the car’s insect-splattered windscreen. Judging by the maze of narrow country roads that ran one into the other just up ahead, that’s where he was and, 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. He still hadn’t a clue. General Practice? Specialize, and if so which speciality? Barry shrugged. He was twenty-four, single, no responsibilities. He knew he’d 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 o’clock appointment, and though finding a direction for his life might be important, his most pressing current need was to earn enough to pay the loan on the car and have enough money left over to eat occasionally.

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 glimpsed himself in the rear-view 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 knew the importance of first impressions so when he went into his impending interview he did not want to look scruffy. He tugged the tie back into place. He tried to smooth down the cow’s lick on the crown of his fair hair, but up it popped. He shrugged. It would just have to stay that way. He wasn’t going to a beauty contest, it was his medical credentials that were to be under scrutiny. At least his hair was cut short, not like the styles affected by the new musical group, The Beatles.

One last glance at the map assured him 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 and the springs of the vehicle creaked. Brunhilde, as he called his vehicle, was protesting about the weight of his worldly goods; two suitcases, one with his meagre wardrobe, the other crammed with medical texts, and a doctor’s medical bag tucked under the bonnet, a fly rod, creel and hip-waders lying in the back seat. Not much to show for being the possessor of a medical degree, he thought, but with any luck his finances would soon take a turn for the better—if he could find Ballybucklebo.


He walked to the junction and looked around but there was a grave deficiency of signposts. Maybe Ballybucklebo’s like Brigadoon, he thought, only appears every hundred years. I’d better start humming, “The Heather on the Hill,” 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 perfume of the gorse flowers in 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, flowers drooping purple and scarlet in the summer air. Bees murmured in the blossoms. Somewhere a cow lowed in basso counterpoint to the blackbird’s treble.

Barry savoured the moment. He might be unclear about what his future held but there was one thing of which he was absolutely certain. Nothing, nothing could ever persuade him that there was anywhere, anywhere else at all, where he would choose to live than here in Northern Ireland.

No map, no signpost and no little people, he thought as he approached the car, I’ll 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 the other on a pedal. For a moment Barry wondered if his hopes of meeting one of the leprechauns 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 buck teeth 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 above tweed trousers tied at the knees with leather thongs that the locals called nicky-tams.

“Grand day,” he remarked.

“It is.”

“Och, aye. Grand. Hay’s coming along fine, so it is.” The youth picked his nose.

“I wonder if you could help me?”

“Aye?” The cyclist lifted his Paddy hat and scratched his ginger hair. “Maybe.”

“I’m 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, thon’s a grand wee place, so it is.”

Barry tried not to let his growing exasperation show. “I’m sure it is, but I have to get there for five.”

“Five? Today, like?”

“Mm.” Barry bit back the words, “No. In the year 2000,” and waited.

The youth fumbled in the fob pocket of his waistcoat, produced a half-hunter and consulted it, frowning and muttering to himself. He looked at Barry. “Five? You’ve 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 McCoubrey’s red barn.”

“Red barn. Right.”

“Now you don’t turn there.”

“Oh.”

“Not at all. Keep right on. You’ll 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?”

“That’s her,” he said continuing to point to the left. “From there on it’s only a wee doddle. Mind you, sir…” He started to mount his rusty machine. The rest of the sentence was delivered with the solemnity of a priest giving the Benediction, “…if I’d been you I wouldn’t have tried to get to Ballybucklebo from here in the first place.”



Opinions

“A grand read from a grand man.”

“Quirky, funny, and deeply moving by turn, Taylor’s writing perfectly captures the language and character of Ulster in times gone by. I promise you will enjoy this book immensely; I did."