IN a strange irony on Armistice Day, hunters and their dogs shattered the peace around my house.
I was at Jean Marc’s boulangerie collecting some old pieces of wood he had put to one side that I could use on the fire, when shots rang out across the valley.
Running up and down the road and through the woods at the back of the boulangerie were four hunters with their hounds in tow.
Although I wasn’t able to see what they were shooting at it was most probably a wild boar, or sanglier.
They were armed with high powered rifles and shot guns and they did not hold back in the pursuit of their prey – or concern for property.
“They just run through your land with their dogs,” Jean Marc said as one of the blokes fell over the electric fence he had put up.
I wondered if the boar is sold, but no, “they just eat it,” said Jean Marc.
Another volley of shots were let off as we all ducked behind the cars and buildings, the woods were that dense you were not sure which way they were shooting.
Then the dogs started howling and barking as the hunters scrambled off through the trees and splashed through the stream in hot pursuit.