Fanore

SETTING - Not so long ago, the tiny police station in Ballyvaughan, County Clare was quiet enough to close during the winter and one officer was considered adequate during the hectic summer months. But Poulanegh on the ‘Wild Atlantic Way’ changed all that.

Under the steep north west face of the hill called Cappanwalla, an outsized boulder that was presumedly deposited by an ancient glacier became dislodged and rolled backwards into the valley below. “There were no man-made structures to block its progress and no animals were harmed” - went the official report, penned by Garda (Police Officer) Burke approximately six weeks later.

“Over millennia -,” explained the geologists, anthropologists and all the apologists, “- rain had deposited seeds and plant material that grew into thick overgrowth to block all evidence of and access to the cave behind it.”

“It was the same rain,” they said “- that weakened the strata of limestone on which it rested, causing it to sink and then fall back from its original position.”

However, that was not its original position because it was purposefully placed to preserve the unique megalithic tomb that was subsequently found inside the cave. The landowner had sometimes wondered what the strange markings on the rock represented, “- but there was always cows to be milked.” He said dismissively.

SOUND - The radio squawks too often but Sergeant Rourke has gotten used to it. The temporary road into Poulanegh, together with the car and bus park has just been resurfaced for the tourists and academics alike and constant traffic duty on the intersection at Gleninagh would soon be a thing of the past.

LIGHT - It’s mid afternoon and the wind is picking up. An extremely disgruntled farmer volunteers a keen insight into the weather they might expect by declaring. “It could be a dirty night.”

ACTION - Garda Burke answers the telephone while filling out a complaint form for the same irate farmer who has apparently lost five pedigree sheep and writes, “He suspects members of the part-time labour assigned to the works in progress at Poulanegh -“, etc.

“Aisling Ryan? Ahhh … Deirdre and Mossy Ryan’s daughter? Of course I know you … and let me say how sad we all were to hear about your grandmother passing on. Mrs McNamara typified everything good from Ballyvaughan through Doolin to Moher and even beyond to Liscannor … a great lady, but we can’t complain really … because it was the biggest send off in the Parish after such a long and fruitful life … a fine family. What’s that? Urgent. Oh, I see … well what is it? I see … Uhuh … you don’t say? Is he alright … I mean, in the head? OK. I’ll tell him right away. Hang on Aisling … yes … just hang on.” Seamus Burke places the phone on his desk and nonchalantly pushes the completed form over to the farmer who’s anger has given way to curiosity and in the same breath says. “Read it and if you’re happy, sign it.”

“What’s the problem with Aisling Ryan?” Asks Sergeant Johnny Rourke while shifting his formidable frame off his elbows and onto his shiny new uniform shoes as he stands up to his full six foot six inches in socks.

Seamus wraps his hand around the mouthpiece. “A lunatic or a drunk by the sound of it Sarge. Some fella has turned up at their place looking for help to find his missus. He says his car has also been stolen and get this. He’s American from the sound of him but a bit confused she says. Goes by the name of Murrew or something that sounds like that. What do you think Sarge?”

“I think you’d better get over there and sort it out. Also, why don’t you stop by Gleninagh and take young Brennan with you. Traffic must have quietened down by now and it sounds like you might need another pair of eyes. Also take a radio and let me know what’s going on there and take notes this time.” The Sergeant frowned and then raised his voice. “Now Burke. Now. This is not another roving rock report.”

“But the breed is not included in this statement.” Complains the sheep farmer.

“Well, write it in yourself before you sign it Mister Flanagan, or is your arm as bad as your eyesight? You are supposed to fill out your own statement and Burke was only doing you a kindness. Why are you still here Burke?”

“Sorry Sarge.” Burke makes an effort at a salute of some sort as he runs out the door with a set of car keys jangling while he pulls a velcro strap tight over the walkie talkie on his shoulder.

“Cheeky pup?” Mutters the Sergeant, returning to his elbow position to better see his smartphone as he thumbs through it and thinking again of the funeral. At least the old lady got to see her family business completely rebuilt, more of hotel now really, but even better that they kept her family name over it. They don’t make ladies like Saoirse McNamara these days, he thinks again. She will be missed.

“Ahh, there she is.” He says quietly but still loud enough for Mr. Flanagan to hear him.

“Who is that?” Mutters the sheep farmer with his tongue caught between his teeth as he scrawls untidily on the otherwise uniform script of the report, shifting from one green rubber boot to the other.

“It’s a picture of old Saoirse McNamara with myself and herself. This one was only taken last Christmas. Jayzus how time flies.” He observes reaching for his cap.

“Are we expectin’ trouble?” Asks the farmer, eyes raised from the form.

“Only the usual with our own drinking too much and too early, and then either forgetting where they left their livestock, or inflating how many they had to start with to confuse the insurance. That and fighting over nothing at all.” He makes an over elaborate show of ensuring his cap is sitting on his head as it should and then winks at the farmer.

“Humphhh.” Is the response he gets followed by the afterthought. “Who pays your wages Rourke?”