Hunting is very much a part of our life in the French countryside. Whilst accepting of this tradition, it becomes a different story when they are hunting the wild boar that lives at the bottom of the garden….

Last weekend winter was never ending. The house felt draughtier than ever before. The north wind sent cold gusts of air down the chimney causing the smoke to swirl and curl in the fireplace.

There is a point, around the first week of January, that both the garden and my state of mind reach a plateau of drab mid-tones of browns and greys.

Kneeling on the stony cold earth, I regret leaving bulb planting until the beginning of December. Neither my trowel nor my wrists feel up to the job.

Living in a house with its back in the forest creates a feeling of seclusion and protection.

I’m on the road home from Montpellier, listening to the hypnotic tones of Valerie June, accelerator foot flat in my old car, feeling relaxed, happy to be out of town.

In the moment, in the darkness I am not sure what has woken me. I lie still and alert, squinting as if this will help me hear more clearly.

The sound of the 7 o’clock bell floats down the valley from the church, skimming the top of the chestnut trees, and finds me in the garden.

My favourite place without doubt is our safari tent. It is nestled into the landscape with its back amongst the chestnut trees, its frontage facing the open valley, surrounded by a millefeuille of hills falling off into the distance.

Bouncing up the track in my old car, I concentrate so as not to take a wrong turn. Past the fields of plumy grasses whistling to their own tune and along the avenue of impervious wild flowers flanking the road.

In a town near us there is a house, much the same as the others in its street. Pretty shabby from the outside, peeling render, a mismatch of windows.

Every Friday the main avenue in town becomes unrecognizable. Colourful stalls flank the streets and marketgoers fill the space with their hustle and bustle and vivacity.

Just as you think the transition from winter to spring is never going to happen, you awake one morning, look out across the valley and there it is; a hesitant haze of leaf and bud, and life feels better for it.

Austere stone turrets guarding ancient arched bridges. Deep, vaulted passageways leading down to the water, full of the dank musty smell of history in its crevices.

Deep valleys studded with tough silver holm oaks and hardy heather, craggy low mountains and uncompromising granite outcrops, remote waterfalls, serpentine rushing rivers and hushed chestnut forests.