It’s human nature not to dwell on the less attractive, but nevertheless unavoidable aspects of existence - death, taxes, politicians, that stupid background music as you scroll through the sky tv listings – and drains. Given that only larger French villages are blessed with the luxury of mains sewers, your choice to live out in the sticks means a previous blissful ignorance of where your effluent ends up is about to change.

been a keen runner for many years and spurred on by my brother's success in a half marathon, I thought it was time to leave the horses at home and try a 10 km trail race ('just a long sprint' according to said brother - right!)

A friend of mine is a successful marathon and triathlon competitor, and she gave me some pointers and lots of encouragement. It seems competing in a running race is so much easier than doing anything with the horses – you just get a medical certificate and that's it. No need to join a club, enter a week before, pack the 4 x 4 to the roof and spend hours getting your horse ready. 

And it was all going so well. Having spent what seemed like an eternity finding your rural idyll (or barely standing and borderline habitable wreck, depending on your point of view) and with keys now in hand, you're desperate to start work on it. You've sketched out plans, your local building equipe is ready to go (bank holidays, ponts and other half finished jobs notwithstanding) and, of a late Autumn morning, work starts. By the time the sun has burned through the Gauloise infused mist, half the roof has disappeared, and by lunchtime the frames for the new skylights are already in place. Happy with progress, you wave a cheery farewell and start the long drive home.