An Irish Country Doctor Read Online Free PDF

the animal away. "Ararf." 
    "Arthur Guinness is the best bloody gundog in Ulster." 
    "You shoot, Doctor O'Reilly?"
    "Fingal, my boy, Fingal. Yes. Arthur and I enjoy a day at the ducks, don't we, Arthur?"
    "Yarf," said Arthur, as he wound his front paws round Barry's leg and started to hump like a demented pile driver. Keep that up, dog, Barry thought, as he tried and failed to hold the besotted beast at bay. Keep that up, and your next litter will be Labrador-corduroy crossbreeds. "Down, Arthur." He might as well have kept his mouth shut as the animal redoubled his efforts.
    "Get on with you, sir," said O'Reilly, pointing to the kennel. "Go home."
    Arthur Guinness gave one last thrust, disengaged himself, and wandered off in the general direction of his abode. "Affectionate animal," said Barry, as he unsuccessfully tried to brush the mud from the leg of his best trousers.
    "If he likes you," said O'Reilly, as he walked on, "and he obviously does."
    "I'd never have guessed." Barry made a mental note to avoid the back garden.
    "Garage is out here," said O'Reilly, opening the back gate. He crossed a lane to a dilapidated shed and swung an overhead door upwards. Barry peered inside and saw a black, long-bonnet Rover, one of a line of cars that had not been produced for at least fifteen years. O'Reilly climbed in and started the engine. It grumbled, spluttered, and backfired. Barry hopped into the passenger seat. O'Reilly put the car in gear and nosed out into the lane. Barry gagged. The car stank of damp dog and tobacco smoke. He wound down a window. O'Reilly turned left onto the street and drove past his house, past the church with the lopsided steeple, and on along Ballybucklebo's main thoroughfare. Barry looked around. Terraces of whitewashed, single-storey cottages, some thatched and some with slate roofs, lined the route. They came to a crossroads and halted at a red traffic light. A large maypole, paint peeling, leaning to the left, stood like a huge barber's pole on the far corner. "It's fun here on Beltane--that's the old Celtic May Day," said O'Reilly, pointing to the pole. "Bonfires, dancing, the pursuit of young virgins ... if there's still one or two around. The locals aren't far removed from their pagan ancestors when there's the chance of a good party." He revved the engine and gestured at the road to the right. "Go down there, and you'll end up at the seashore; left takes you up into the Ballybucklebo Hills."
    Barry nodded.
    The light changed to amber. O'Reilly slipped the clutch and roared ahead. "Amber," he remarked, "is only for the tourists." He paid no attention to a tractor that had been coming in the other direction and now stood with its trailer slewed across the intersection. "Got to get home in time for the game." He gestured vaguely around. "The throbbing heart of Ballybucklebo," he said. Two-storey buildings now. Greengrocer, butcher, newsagent, and a larger building, outside of which hung a sign: The Black Swan. Barry noticed a familiar figure, left ankle bandaged, limping towards the front door.
    "Galvin," said O'Reilly. "Jesus, that one'd drain the lough if it was Guinness."
    Barry turned to watch as Galvin pushed his way into The Black Swan.
    "Never mind him," said O'Reilly, shifting up with a grinding of gears. "I'm meant to be showing you the way around. Now. You can take this road we're on to Belfast, or if you take a look to starboard . . . see? You can always take the train."
    Barry glanced to his right to see a diesel train moving slowly along a raised embankment. Interesting, he thought. He might just do that on his day off. It would be cheaper than driving up, and he'd like to visit one of his friends from medical school because--
    He was hurled forward as O'Reilly braked. "Bloody cow!"
    O'Reilly growled.
    Barry saw a single black-and-white bovine, eyes soft, reflecting the utter vacuity behind, ambling along the centre of the road, chewing its cud with delicate deliberation. O'Reilly