The Sneaky Pint: Buile Suibne

Posted on September 24, 2020 / by The Drunken Poet

He became known as Buile Suibhne. He was the loyal regent of the king of Dál nAraide, Congal Cáech, but more of him later. The Cruithin People, who originally came from Scotland, had settled in Dál nAraide, east of Lough Neagh in what today is known as Counties Down and Antrim. The ownership of these lands was disputed by Domnall II, the High King of Ireland and in 637 A.D he marched towards Dál nAraide with an army of 50 000 bloodthirsty warriors. King Congal assembled an army to meet them and marched to a field near Moira. Flocks of birds flew from trees. The ground shook.
As Suibhne was riding alongside Congal he noticed a priest marking out the foundations of a church by the lake. (Prime real estate was already entrenched church policy.)Now Suibhne was the regent and all planning proposals were to go to him for approval and here was this priest taking advantage of the battle to slip in some illicit construction. The cheeky fecker, thought Suibhne, and jumped down from his horse. As he did so his cloak got caught, unfurled and left him naked. Unperturbed by his exposed state, Suibhne approached the priest in a state of naked fury. Suibhne had never trusted priests and this one in particular had been getting up his nose more than usual. Calling himself St. Ronan and generally swanning about like he owned the place. “What the fuck do ye think you’re at?” Taken aback at the sight of a starkas Suibhne, St. Ronan held a bible in front of his eyes and cried, “Get back heathen!” Suibhne grabbed the bible and threw it into the lake. The priest watched the ruddy buttocks of Suibhne as he walked back to his horse and rode off to war.
The Battle of Moira was indeed a bloody affair. It raged for a week and a field of blood and tears was left in its wake. The body count was enormous. When the Ulster Railway was being built they discovered the remains of thousands of warriors from that horrible week. So let’s transport back to that time and place to the 7th and last day of the battle. A weeping Suibhne kneels holding the slain Congal in his arms. His face muddy and bloody from battle, is now wet with tears. His eyes are wild and shot and his heart is breaking. What was all this slaughter, all this horror, all this lost life for? As his king lay dying, Suibhne asked his soul the biggest questions any of us can ever ask. Still naked from when he’d lost his cloak, Suibhne stood, threw away his sword and walked from the battlefield.
Some say that St. Ronan cursed Suibhne when he threw his bible in the lake, but the Sneaky Pint prefers the more realistic prospect that Suibhne walked away from the Battle of Moira with what people would call PTSD these days. And after being witness and partaking in such a massacre there’s little wonder Suibhne became unhinged. He preferred the company of birds and tended to hang about in trees. Birds were a lot more peaceful than men and there’s something about being in a tree that gives you perspective on life. Buile Suibhne, as he was now known, travelled far and wide for years surviving on watercress. Watching the changes of the season, sleeping rough and writing poetry. Like many war veterans, he felt like an outsider and lived a life on the fringes of society.
He only felt peace when he arrived at Glen Bolcain. Ironically, a priest took pity on the wretched Suibhne and counseled him on his woes. The priest was moved at the beauty of his poetry which, in rich irish, recounted the wonders of the natural world and delved into his pathos. A naked wildman with the heart of a poet. A local woman started to leave a bowl of milk out for this kind, but troubled man and things start to look up for Suibhne. He began to regain some stability and spent less time in the trees and more time chatting with the priest. Alas, this story was always unlikely to have a happy ending. The woman’s husband became jealous of Suibhne and killed him with a spear at a well near Glen Bolcain. The Madman’s Well. A violent end for a man who no longer saw the sense of violence.
The Drunken Poet has salved the wounds of many lost tree dwellers and poets. No doubt Buile Suibhne would’ve been a regular. He might’ve been handed a Drunken Poet tshirt (for sale at a very reasonable $25) and some tracky dacks from the lost property, but he was only human and if he’d tasted the Guinness he would’ve been hooked.