Cavan Calling/Steph Booth: The roads into Blacklion are bordered by tourist-information signs, those large brown placards with white lettering. On the left are the words "Cathal Buí, Fáilte". On the right is a picture of a dead bird lying on its back, its legs sticking up.
Tony and I have enough grasp of Irish to know what fáilte means, but we spent many weeks trying to figure out Cathal Buí. Finally, we decided the sign must mean welcome to dead-bird country. Our Dublin friends joke that Cavan people can be a little strange, but even so this seemed an odd way to promote the area. Surely the sign could not mean "Come to west Cavan and kill small winged creatures".
We have since discovered that the sign indeed has something to do with dead birds, but not in the way we imagined. We now know that Cathal Buí was a famous 18th-century poet who once lived in the area. Out for a walk one winter's day, he came across a dead bird; the sight moved him to write perhaps his best-known piece, The Yellow Bittern.
In the past few years locals have organised the Cathal Buí community arts and heritage festival, a long weekend of art, music, drama and poetry. Despite the sometimes atrocious weather, this year's events were well supported - and in fact the whole festival was excellent.
On the Friday evening Tony and I bought tickets for a concert by Sligo Early Music Ensemble. As we had heard them before we knew were in for a treat. A neighbour, Austin McManus, is also its lead violinist, so we also felt the pride of a connection.
One of the many great benefits of living in this corner of Ireland is the sense of community, which is reflected in the number of local shows and festivals. When we picked up a programme for the Manorhamilton agricultural show Tony was pleased to see that its competition categories included one for pets. He decided to enter our black tomcat, Finbar, and our springer puppy, Milly, convinced they would win prizes.
I was not entirely sure they would behave themselves, however, and had visions of maximum embarrassment levels. I recall only too well the toe-curling horrors Tony put me through when he entered our Jack Russell in a summer show in England. Instead of running the dog the length of the show ring, as he had been asked, he didn't notice that he had flipped her onto her back and was dragging her along. Mortified by the laughter from the crowd, I abandoned him.
I am therefore most grateful that Tony forgot to fill in the entry form for Manorhamilton in time. We'll give it a go next year, when Milly has stopped behaving like Tigger on speed.
Our contribution to community events so far has been to help our friends Roy and Bridie Street, who run the Olive Grove restaurant in Blacklion, to organise the barbecue for the Cathal Buí Festival. The weather that Saturday was completely unpredictable: blue skies and sunshine one moment and bullying black clouds and rain the next.
Soon after Roy, his daughter Alice and I began the barbecue the first light shower chased across the sky. It did little to dampen our spirits. For another hour or so the sun shone, but then disaster loomed from the west as it began to pour. We dashed for shelter under the Garda station porch. About a dozen of us huddled together, using umbrellas as an ineffectual barrier against the rain driving in at the side.
Then someone noticed that the barbecue, which was gas, looked as if it was on fire. Roy decided to investigate, in case there was a problem. Nothing would persuade him otherwise, monsoon or no monsoon. So, leaving the women and children to shelter, he strode out with his umbrella gallantly aloft.
One thing the British and Irish evidently have in common is the ability to choose the wettest day of the year for a barbecue.
Next Monday: the business of birthdays
