Since writing my last post, I have discovered that not long after I burst into the village snack bar full of drunken hunters the other night and hurled insults at all and sundry, a fight broke out. I was a bit concerned that it was something to do with me, and that I would soon have twenty hunters out the front of the house complaining that a small English woman has no right to scold them like I did and trampling on my lettuces, but no – apparently they were arguing over a wild boar and who had shot it and whose dog had tracked it and who had the right to its two back legs (Obelix’s favourite morsel). Of course, when in disagreement and unable to find a compromise, do what only a true, proud hunter can do : hit the bloke in front of you. And if you are a hunter standing by, by all means, join in and hit the closest person to you. Maybe pick up a chair and throw it. Or push a table over, or smash a beer bottle on the edge of the bar and brandish it in a dozen fat, red-faced, moustached faces. This is the Hunter’s Code. Hit, smash, break and shoot. Then you’re more of a man. More of a hunting man.