Boundaries are often considered sacred places. They mark the end of one place, the end of one way of life, and mark the beginning of another. When lockdown ended and the world began opening back up again, I visited the National Museum on Kildare Street for the first time in a number of years. Their remarkable ‘Kingship and Sacrifice’ collection displays four bog bodies; a chance to meet the ancestors face to face. Some of these bodies were believed to have been kings, sacrificed at borders between one tuath and the next.
Tuath. The old Gaelic sub-divisions. Many still exist, being retained by the Normans post-invasion. They became civil parishes and, in some cases, parishes.
In 1902, the Rev. William S. Donegan published his ‘Lucania’ book, a history of Lucan. Of Lucan’s boundaries, he states:
The Parochial District of Lucan is bounded on the North by Coldblow and Pass-if-you-can on the frontiers of the County Meath ; on the South by the Bush of Balgaddy and Ballyowen ; on the East by the Devil’s Mills and the Low Road ; on the West by St. Catherine’s and the Salmon Leap.
This very clearly describes the townlands that were considered part of the parochial district. I had been to Pass-if-you-can, the Devil’s Mills and the Salmon Leap. But the Bush of Balgaddy? That was a new one on me and something that I needed to find. And so, on an unusually crisp morning, I set out from Griffeen Valley Park to begin my journey.
From studying old maps on the OSI Viewer website, I see that the bush should be located roughly where Lucan South church stands today. The Clondalkin Road that runs between the church and Ballyowen park is a townland boundary, separating Ballyowen from Balgaddy. The bush was, therefore, a signifier of a boundary and would have held some sacral significance.
I can also see that, on the old maps, the bush stands at the crossroads of Lynch’s Lane (now mostly disappeared) and the Clondalkin Road. Crossroads had an added significance in Irish mythology. Indeed, they held an important place in the local culture too as often they were the easiest place for people to come together for social occasions. It is becoming more and more obvious to me why this bush might have taken on additional significance in the local landscape.
I cross over the Griffeen River in the park on my way to the Griffeen Avenue exit. There are children playing on the large pipe that runs through the river itself crossing from one side to another. I follow the path along the Griffeen until I come to the point where it is flooded. It is always flooded here. Across the river is a surprisingly picturesque little stone wall construction marking the end of a storm drain. It almost looks like an enclave for a holy well.
The path is flooded to the extent that I have to leave it behind and walk up the soggy grass slope to a drier path. I pass a cypress tree at the crest of the hill that has ribbons and other offerings tied to it. The happy face of a tree spirit smiles back at me. A tree beside a perpetually flooded path at the site of a well. Is this the beginnings of some local mythology perhaps? In a hundred years, will people tell of the mystical Griffeen Cypress, a tree that stands guard and commands the path to flood to protect the holy well from human footfall? A tree that can only be appeased with ribbons and smiley faces? I’m guessing yes. This is precisely the legend that will evolve here.
I turn east on Griffeen Avenue and make my way through the sea of housing estates. Soon, I pass Di Bella restaurant. Across the road is one of the last great wildernesses in Lucan – an undeveloped piece of land that is currently home to an immense tangle of brambles and briars of legendary proportion. They poke out of the green mesh fencing like ferocious octopus arms, waving fists at encroaching modernity, warning us to stay away.
Griffeen Avenue becomes the Balgaddy Road as I cross over the outer ring road,. Balgaddy – from the Irish for ‘The Town of Thieves’. This is a very ancient name, but, alas, the history behind it has long since disappeared. My own guess is that thieves once lived here in an impenetrable briar fortress. But I could be wrong.
Balgaddy is one of the great towns that never was in Irish planning. Our modern suburbia was born out of planning studies that began in the late 1950s. Over the years, plans to build separate Clondalkin and Lucan new towns morphed into one. Balgaddy was proposed as one of the possible town centre sites and, indeed, until 2001, it looked like it might have been selected. That honor instead went to Quarryvale/Liffey Valley, and a million tribunals were born.
Many years ago, a priest sought refuge from a storm in a nearby house. He had performed a marriage with which the locals disagreed and none offered him shelter. Instead, he stayed in a barn and, to put it mildly, he was more than a little peeved. When the storm passed, he placed a curse on the homeowners. Their house would become vacant. Grass would grow around it. And their beloved bush, the boundary between this land and the next, would fall.
This came to pass. Another bush was planted – a hawthorn – but it was said to be a poor replacement for the original. Nonetheless, this new bush also became known as the Bush of Balgaddy.
I approach the Clondalkin Road from the Balgaddy Road. In front of me, there is a roundabout. There is a solitary hawthorn growing in the middle of it. The Bush of Balgaddy. Still here today, still marking the end of Lucan.
Or, at least, it’s ‘a’ Bush of Balgaddy. The last one was bulldozed in 1983 as part of development works. But this one, in 2022, is our generation’s Bush of Balgaddy, a solitary sacred sentry, keeping a watchful eye over those who come and go through the gateway to our town.