Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
balling, these are real guns, and in this weather you can bet that there'll have been a few
warming Cognacs knocked back over lunch too.
We went back indoors and had an earnest talk about how we have to learn to embrace the
countryside, to take its stings as well as its charms. We are part of this community now and
if we're prepared to accept the odd game bird here and there then we should also be able to
put up with how it's killed. We had a neighbour in Crawley who ran over a deer and we didn't
get all prissy about the venison we enjoyed for weeks after that, did we? The blunt truth is
that the French are less squeamish about these things - they don't just take an active part in
the eating of and preparation of what goes on their dinner plate, they want to know where it
came from, how it got there. And don't misinterpret that as meaning that all French food is
organically reared or humanely killed because it isn't; this is the land of foie gras, and feel-
ings, yours or the animals, don't come into it.
We, as a family, had to make adjustments. We had to take our middle-class, southern Eng-
lish, townie attitudes and put them aside. We could choose not to like what the hunters do,
but we had to accept that they are what they are; that it is their way of life. Or, we could just
buy our own weapons and shoot back, whatever. Junior, on the other hand, tends to fight fire
with fire and, as if in response to the violence around him, took this opportunity to trash the
chicken coop.
It was generally acknowledged, by Natalie and the boys, not by me, that it was only a matter
of time before we actually had chickens; Junior, though, had put the whole thing on the back-
burner. Clearly spotting a blade of grass with his name on it, he destroyed the fencing around
the coop, trampling it down and making a right old mess. He also, according to Natalie, left
the fence in such a state that it was now causing a danger to Junior as it 'might cut his legs'.
'Serves him bloody right!' I said, thinking naively that that would be an end to it.
Two hours later I was still there in sub-zero temperatures with a barely up-to-the-job pair of
pliers cutting back the damaged fence, all the time gunfire raging and Junior standing over
me snorting at my back, mocking me. With his long winter mane he looked like a heated,
malevolent Tina Turner. The last bit of the fence proved particularly troublesome; by now my
hands were not only frozen, they were cramping up and the splinters I had got from stack-
ing the firewood weren't helping. I gave one final almighty heave and the fence came apart
but sent me spinning backwards, past a nonchalant Junior and into the electric fence where I
briefly thrashed about before sinking to my knees.
I decided that was enough for the day. It was getting dark anyway; time to relax in front
of a roaring log fire, and get a bit of peace and quiet. I am good at my job. I can cope with
most situations, I am pretty unflappable. I have the skills and experience that means if you
put me in a room with 400 drunk stags and hens I can deal with it pretty well, rarely losing
my patience. But give me three boys, three cats, two dogs, two horses and a wife who seems
to have found a way to make cushions breed and I am obviously completely out of my depth.
