Country Life ; 4 Prenez garde

Brought up on a diet of anthropomorphised cartoon animals, your children may have a particularly rosy view of country life. Bears chat laconically, rarely rip anyone to shreds (baddies excluded) and never defecate in the woods. Badgers, foxes, stoats and birds of prey all rub along, sharing lookout duties, snappy one liners and schemes to outwit any villainous housing developer encroaching on their habitat.

Step outside your front door though and you’ll find the la réalité francais somewhat different. Take capybara. Hydrochoerus hydrochaeris is a bloody big and virtually indestructible semi aquatic rat, introduced from South America and now found everywhere in France. 

Seen from a distance playing in the stream, they’re liable to make you come over all tarka the otterish. But it’s a warm glow which can swiftly disappear - especially when you’re woken at 2am by the dogs going bonkers at 10 kilos of territory marking rodent who, having snuck under the gate, is now rattling its enormously big teeth at the pack. And it’s your job to shift it. Great. Five minutes later and your pelted nemesis has ripped out a chunk of the broom you’ve used to move it, leaving said broom – and your supposed country boy savvy – in tatters. Totally unfazed, it saunters off down the drive whilst you, cold and defeated, return to bed.

Given that birds don’t do glass, your extension’s shiny new patio doors can provide interesting diversions too – especially when a short sighted kestrel bashes into them. Briefly stunned, it perches just out of the dogs reach and, naturellement, you go outside to gently move it somewhere safer. What you forget, but then swiftly remember as its razor sharp talons dig into your flesh, are gauntlets. Kes shakes himself awake, releases his hold and glides off to the trees - and leaves you with punctured hands and another lesson in wildlife husbandry (and your kids with some new expletives to share with their school friends).

So after an eventful weekend, it’s time for the school run. Cosseted by your seat and cocooned in a wildlife free metal box, you head down the lane - and narrowly avoid the cow sized stag that’s decided it’s the ideal time to lumber across the road in front of you. The aerodynamics of your car remain blissfully unaltered and, having also confirmed that your adrenal glands are in fine fettle, you continue – even more slowly – towards town.

Bienvenue à la vrai campagne (trans ; welcome to the jungle).