WAR GAMES

In the Art of War, Sun Tzu advises to keep your enemies close. Having not endeared myself to our land lord, Knob Head, I decided on a different tactic. Your enemy's enemy is your friend. I needed to get close to the wife.

Mrs Knob Head is a prim and austere matriarch, who rules with army precision. She has a sensible haircut and wears sensible wellies.

In the morning, from our bed in the gite on the other side of the property, we can hear her bellowing in a range and decibel that would make a sergeant major proud. Anyone or anything could be the recipient of her wrath, from her wimpy husband to their cowering dog.

She has two ancient horses that graze in paddocks around the property. She has constructed a web of electric fences, so complicated that it is obvious that guests are not welcome to interact. However, I decided to use our mutual love of horses as an opening gambit.

I intercepted her one morning on the way to the paddocks with her dog. I had our black staffie, Blinder, with me and as the two canines chased each other and frolicked, we chatted about paddock rotation and the problems of blanketing. It was going well. I was sure to be invited to ride with her at this rate.

Suddenly, one of her chickens breached the coop fence line and made a run for it. Her dog gave chase and Blinder, who has never chased anything other than a ball, acted completely out of character and followed. The sergeant major barked instructions but pack mentality had taken over.

My pride in Blinder outrunning her dog was quickly overshadowed when I realised he had the flapping chicken pinned to the ground.

By the time we had raced to the battle ground, I expected the worse. French chickens taste absolutely delicious, so it was with mixed emotions that I saw signs of life.

One quiet word from me and Blinder spat the fowl out and came and sat at my feet. The chicken rose slowly, shook what few feathers it had left and limped back to the coop, desperately trying to remember where she got out.

In the silence that followed, it was clear that Mrs Knob Head would not be inviting me for tea anytime soon.

With tweezer lips and a steely stare from behind her sensible spectacles, she dismissed me and marched off to find someone to waterboard.

It's back to the war room drawing board for me.

Another war that is raging in France is between the 1.1 million active hunters and the hiking, cycling and just living in the countryside general public.

Fed up with being shot dead whilst taking their dog for a walk or, as happened last year, chopping wood in their back garden, they have campaigned for and won to have hunters subjected, by law, to the same drinking and drug rules as motorists. An amazing victory when you think that Emmanuel Macron, the French President, is an avid hunter, who halved their licence fees last year and hales them as 'heirs to France's country conditions'.

Oblivious to any of this, Blinder and I have spent hours walking along the nearby leafy tracks through the forests and up and over hills. This morning, we heard in the distance the plaintive howling of several dogs and then a gun shot. At first I thought it was the ruthless French way of dealing with barking dogs, but the noise continued and seemed to be coming our way. We retraced our steps and found a notice had been put up since we'd entered the woods to say that hunting was in progress and that we must be 'cautious together'. Up on the ridge, an orange clad Elma Fudd stalked in to view. As Blinder can easily be confused with a black, pot bellied pig and, when he's been rolling, can smell like one, we quickly hot footed it home, with the sound of the hounds at our heels.

Every year, from September to February, this two billion Euro industry terrorises, with impunity, the French countryside like Cape Flats gangsters. Regulations, like not firing within 150 metres of a house or road, are ignored. Bullets have ended up in people's homes, including a child's bedroom. There seems very little the public can do. Once, after a public uproar when a mountain biker was shot dead, a MP suggested that cyclists should be banned during hunting season.

With this in mind, Blinder and I have decided if you can't beat them join them. He now has a bright yellow, reflective jacket and I've taken to singing at the top of my voice, so as not to surprise any gun-toting, trigger-happy, traffic cone looking Rambo.

Fun Fact about France - Everything, apart from the bigger supermarkets, closes between 12 and 2pm for lunch. Banks are open Saturday but closed on Mondays. On Sunday afternoon everything is closed.