When we booked our holiday cottage several months ago, the idea was to be a little closer to family than we were in Donegal. 'Rostrevor,' my husband said, 'County Down. 'I twisted my ankle there when I was a kid.' Seemed a good enough reason. But little did we realise that we would be arriving a day before the start of the week-long 'Fiddler's Green' music festival.

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And what a treat it is. There's action throughout the picturesque little town all day and late into the night: storytellers, folk music, walks...and the scenery is absolutely stunning. We were too late to get tickets for Mary Black or The Dubliners' concerts later in the week, but tomorrow, our 30th wedding anniversary, we will be at the Moya Brennan concert.

Years ago, when we were just engaged, my husband gave me a cassette 'A Feast of Irish Folk.' On it was a wonderful song 'Fiddler's Green.' Yesterday there was a walk up to Fiddler's Green, a beautiful little field in the Rostrevor Forest. There we heard members of Rostrevor's well-known musical family, the Sands, performing music and storytelling, along with visitors from Denmark, Israel, Germany, and all around Ireland. And of course, there was a great rousing rendition of 'Fiddler's Green'. What I love is that it all feels so genuine: not a 'let's all be Irish for the tourists'.

And last night we were at a performance 'On the Road' with three superb musicians: Colum Sands, whose witty banter is timed to perfection, and whose simple music and lyrics pierce straight to the heart, Ann Patterson, an upcoming singer-songwriter from Derry, who held her own extremely well, and Alan Taylor, an English musician who has spent over thirty years on the road, reminiscent to me of Ralph McTell. The three blended seamlessly, and boy did they bring tears to my eyes.

Internet access is about as rare as are aduki beans in this part of the world ('Lentils? What would those be, now?' the girl in the superduper supermarket in Warrenpoint asked me yesterday.) But we have found a library here in Kilkeel which gives you an hour, and it's just beside a huge, clean swimming pool that smells neither of feet nor of chlorine. So we're getting fit. Soon (when we find a shop that sells hiking sticks - ours got stuck in the wrong case - I believe stuff as ambitious as walking sticks might be found in the metropolis of Newry, which we plan to visit on Wednesday) we will attempt to climb a Mountain of Mourne or two. And forgive me, I promise I will catch up with all your blogs as soon as I can.