Cavan Calling: For the first few weeks in our new house, it was just like being on holiday.  Tony and I had been to Ireland so many times before moving here that there was an almost unspoken sense we would have to return home. This meant we did not treat as urgently as perhaps we should have the process of being immigrants - the telephone calls to bureaucrats, the form-filling and the queues.

We were so pleased with ourselves that instead we messed about on beaches, went for walks and spent time gazing at magnificent night skies. But here in west Co Cavan the darkness is inky and the stars look as if they are throbbing. For urbanites like us it is a truly awesome sight.

Eventually, after a couple of weeks, we faced up to the process of making ourselves official residents. Re-insuring our cars was a priority, but the cost was a huge shock. The minimum quote was double the price of my English insurance, despite years of no claims. The quote for Tony was unspeakable. In the eyes of Irish car insurers, actors are obviously disreputable characters and being a mature actor with a long and varied history bumped up his premium even further.

However, as the weeks have gone on, the reason for the high cost of motor insurance becomes clear. It is the Italians who have always had the worst reputation in Europe for a cavalier style of driving, but here in Co Cavan the Irish give the Italians a good run for their money. I know you aren't supposed to drive with your eyes shut, but when almost certain death appears to be hurtling at speed straight at you around a tight bend on a narrow road, it really is the only option.

Irish roads and road signs in general were one of the first clear indicators to us that, despite a shared language, we were living in another country. When we first arrived, there was quite a lot of disruption to our small, local roads as workmen laid a new water-supply system. Temporary traffic lights were put in place, along with signs reminding motorists to wait for the green light. With hindsight, the necessity for that sign should have been cause for trepidation. One afternoon, as we drove through a green light, I suddenly got a feeling in my waters. I was certain we would meet an oncoming car on the sharp bend just ahead. My fears were justified, but fortunately the driver in the oncoming car was also being cautious and there was no problem.

Of course, Tony turned the air blue on the subject of people who ignore red lights. On the other hand, if you choose to obey the red light you can wait a long time for the green - 20 minutes is our current record. Also, if you go through a green light at road works you can find yourself stranded in no man's land while technical stuff, such as an enormous wagon disgorging its load of stones, is carried out. Therefore, it is highly likely you will meet an oncoming car because during this lengthy interlude the lights will have changed again.

This can lead to the sort of heated exchanges that appear to be a regular source of amusement for the workmen. But mostly, with a bit of judicious backing up into hedges and perilous skirting of the sides of ditches, things can be resolved fairly amicably.

This experience has contributed to my understanding of a key cultural difference between the Irish and the British. While in Britain road signs are definitive, in Ireland the spirit of rebellion lives on and they seem to be simply a general indication of what you might possibly expect ahead, but there's no guarantee and you certainly shouldn't hold anyone to anything. Road junctions are another indicator of these divergent attitudes.

In Britain there is "Give Way" - vaguely polite, please be nice to each other. Here it's "Yield", with the implication "out of my way, I'm coming through" - an overt challenge to macho pride. The conundrum Tony and I are currently trying to resolve involves two hump-back bridges near Rossinver that have "Yield" signs on both sides of the bridges.

Next week: When the cat flirts with the priest