Free Death in the Burren by John Kinsella Page A

foundations.
    It was to this demonic symphony that McAllister awoke.
    The open window rattled as the soaked curtains cracked and danced to the command of the wind god, and his first instinct, to close it as quickly as possible, succeeded, despite the protestations of the elements, which tried to enter the room and make it their own.
    As he sat on the edge of the bed drying his feet, which had squelched uncomfortably into the carpet by the window, McAllister realised that this was the morning of his trip to Poll Salach.
    He groaned with disappointment and looked blearily out through the window in disbelief at this sudden deterioration in the weather.
    What was he to do? He looked at his watch. Seven fifteen. Still quite early. The best thing was to have breakfast and then consider whether he should telephone Gregans Castle Hotel and talk with Patsy McBride.
    McAllister made his way to the empty dining room at eight o’clock and, thanks to the personal attention of Aoife, emerged half an hour later, after a substantial breakfast, feeling better able to cope with whatever decisions he would have to make.
    He looked out to sea and his hopes rose when he saw that the sky had lightened to the south-west. McAllister’s experience of Ireland’s west coast oceanic climate told him that a significant improvement in conditions would quickly follow and he returned to his room with a lighter heart. His judgement was proved correct when he re-emerged from the guest house, loaded with equipment, to go to his car, and saw that the wind had abated to a surprising degree, and was now coming from a more southerly direction.
    In the meantime, a telephone call to Patsy confirmed that he was on his way, and that the group was ready to set out as scheduled. They arranged to meet at Poll Salach.
    As McAllister had a short three mile journey south, while Patsy’s party had to make the longer trip from Gregans Castle Hotel, through Lisdoonvarna and Ballinalacken, he took a leisurely pace and enjoyed the early morning drive along the coast road.
    Despite the vexations, mysteries and indeed horrors of the past week he felt a sense of healing and renewal as he drove once more along this primeval frontier between sea and land. The age old hostilities between them, which had been re-enacted last night, were moderating, and these ancient elements were once more agreeing on a period of peace.
    He reached Poll Salach before the minibus, gratefully eased himself from the Sierra and took a deep breath. The quality of the air was intoxicating, giving him a feeling of elation, and the breeze flicked playfully at his hair. The demons of last night had tamed and mutated into sylph like creatures eager to beguile him, and he submitted to their charms as he closed his eyes and rested his arm on the open car door, his face turned to the strengthening sun.
    McAllister could have stayed in this reverie indefinitely but the distant hum of an engine signalled an end to this coalescence with his primal surroundings.
    The sound of the approaching minibus faded and strengthened alternately as it negotiated the twisting roadway and rose and fell with the contours of the land.
    McAllister waited with mixed feelings for it’s arrival, somehow hoping, almost willing, that it would never reach him, so that he could return to his sensuous daydreaming.
    It was not to be, however, and he was soon standing in the shadow of the noisy minibus watching the magisterial figure of Patsy McBride descend from the doorway as if she were claiming this part of the Burren territory for some higher authority.
    Her troops filed out and grouped themselves around her with an air of expectancy as they all looked towards McAllister.
    “I surrender,” he quipped in mock terror. “I promise not to resist.”
    They laughed, but in some puzzlement because they could not quite appreciate the effect of the tableau from his viewpoint.
    Patsy smiled briefly, but was too concerned with the details of