Me and my big mouth

Cavan Calling: It is a year this month since we found our home in Ireland. In some ways our former life seems like a million years ago and in others the time has simply flown past. Tony and I have crammed so much into a year, writes Steph Booth.

We were so lucky to find this house. The search was somewhat hectic - we had two days to find what we wanted. It was helpful knowing where we wanted to live, but perhaps viewing six houses on the first day ratcheted up stress levels excessively.

The positive side of that experience was we ended the day very clear about what we didn't want and were far better clued up on auctioneer speak. One of the houses was described as "in a rural location". Sounded perfect until we saw it was actually in the middle of a farmyard. Tony and I were keen to live in the country, but not actually to have its bovine residents quite so close.

It was in this house I had one of those embarrassing moments that can still make you squirm years later. The last room we viewed was the sitting room. It had the most hideous fire surround I have ever seen. A massive creation of dark wood and fantastic decoration that would not have been out of place in the wicked fairy's castle.

As if this wasn't bad enough, standing on the mantelpiece was a battered plaster statue, about 12 inches high, of the Virgin Mary. The end of her nose was missing, as was one of her arms - fortunately, not the one carrying the baby Jesus. I knew I was going to start laughing. I started chewing my lip and making all sorts of deals with God - just please don't let me lose control. Of course, because I had my lips tightly clamped, when the laughter forced its way out it was with an enormous, undignified snort.

The startled auctioneer said nobody had reacted like that before. I'm afraid this just made me worse. I was by this time crying with laughter. Tony was looking daggers at me, but I simply could not get a grip on myself. We left the house a few minutes later and, struggling to redeem myself, I apologised and asked if the house belonged to someone the auctioneer knew well. "Yes," he said, "my mother."

I don't think I've managed to offend someone so spectacularly since or at least my reputation has not preceded me, as Tony and I were recently invited to the ICA Christmas party at Blacklion Golf Club. Tony was unable to attend as he was at a reception in Downing Street the same evening, so I went along with my son, Sam.

It is the great good fortune of the Blacklion community to have Kathleen Richie as a resident. Her good-natured manner and organisational skills are second to none and the operation of feeding a large group of people and organising the raffle went like clockwork. The only slight quibble I have is the raffle prizes were the flower arrangements adorning each table and I hoped to win one of them. My number was 166. Of course, 165 and 167 were both called out, but no 166. However, that aside Sam and I had a lovely evening.

Kathleen Richie also runs the annual fortnight of swimming lessons in Loch MacNean. These take place during the school summer holidays and the children range from young primary schoolers to adolescents. To judge by the crowds down by the loch each day these lessons are an important summer experience for local children. They must breed them tough around here - the water is freezing even in August. It was no surprise when I heard the children learn to swim quickly - it's the only way to stay warm.

I took the dogs for a walk around the loch today. It was late afternoon and the light was just beginning to fade. The hills and the water were extraordinarily serene and the sky was simply stunning. It looked as if someone had decided to try out a range of blues from a watercolour palette, each line of colour becoming deeper as it approached the horizon. I was standing staring on a wall by the jetty in Glenfarne Woods when I saw a movement in the reeds. A pair of swans sailed majestically out into the loch. It was so beautiful it made my skin prickle. A moment I shall remember with joy.

sbooth@irish-times.ie