An evening wander

At the end of a busy day at the coalface (or laptop), what better way to unwind than with a swift half at the bar. Problem is, like most of life’s better things, there’s a catch. Somewhat unfairly, beer  = calories = an ever expanding waistline - and bearing in mind your better half’s disapproval of the idea in the first place, perhaps better to head straight home, ditch your grown up clothes, find some wellies and hounds and head for the fields.

As plans go, it’s a good one – swopping an endless stream of emails and constantly ringing phones for half an hour of French rural idyll. There’s no roads to cross or particular paths to follow, just evening damp grass, circling buzzards and swiftly darkening woods. What it doesn’t take account of is that the dogs have had their collective legs crossed for hours -and have a very different view of what constitutes a good walk.

Hence, once the gate to the nearest paddock is opened, they’re off – or, in the case of the oldest and least mobile labrador – not. A few minutes later though she’s found something suitably disgusting to roll in, while in the meantime the others have disappeared. A brief sprint over the brow of the hill reveals two more of your staggeringly misbehaved pack attempting to dig out a rabbit warren (its occupants having long since scarpered via an emergency exit on the far side). Which leaves the last pair – one of whom is genuinely deaf and has a penchant for sanglier poo, and the youngest and fastest – who’s now totally out of sight and probably in the neighbouring commune.

Somehow the motley crew are corralled just before nightfall, each desperately pleased with themselves and wholly unconcerned that you didn’t get as much from the experience as they did. Happily they pad their way home while you keep a wary eye on the horses who, not overly keen on sharing their domain, are looking for an opportunity to encourage the stragglers on their way.

And as it’s teatime, they all beat you home anyway - where your tardy arrival is greeted with a chorus of impatient barking, so ensuring they get fed before you get round to the rest of your chores. Man’s best friend – probably; just as long as you know who’s in charge.