Mist hung low in the valley. It came towards me in great swirls. The village only became visible when I reached the big house on the left. But I saw the parked van in the field above straight away, and immediately afterwards the man in the high vis. vest, glowing eerily orange, a gun slung nonchalantly over his shoulder, a wiry terrier trotting along by his side. I’d already heard la chasse in the woods on the other side of the valley. Normally innocent and innocuous, and a joy to look at, these woods became menacing when filled with men braying like banshees and yowling and howling dogs. But I needed to pick up our daily bread and even more I needed my coffee. 

Off I went. The man spoke to me, smiled and was perfectly friendly. He said something about it not being the best day for a walk. His little dog strained at his long leash, keen to be off, sensing excitement. I felt only a vague sense of dread, an oppression descending with the mist. Round the next bend, another man lurked, partially obscured by a thin sapling, a few leaves and slender branches giving a semblance of cover. His walkie-talkie crackled as he talked with others. I walked on, up towards the village, grateful for houses, shelter and the convivance of the cafe. There was no-one there, but I felt at home. 

Baguette tucked under my arm, relaxed, I set off again. At the top of the rise, the beginning of the descent, the noise of the hunt surrounded me. Horns. Hard shouting. Frenzied barking. Movement caught my eye. A small brown deer hurtling through the broken stalks of sunflowers. For a moment I was lost in the beauty of him. His grace. His speed. His agility. But as reality hit, I spoke out loud. ‘Run, run, run!’, I said, chest pounding. I willed him on. And then there was an enormous noise. A gunshot. It seemed so close. Stunned to silence. Him and me both. I could not move. He fell. What had, only a moment before, been so full of life, was now a dead thing. A moment before there had been warm coffee and birdsong. Now there was nothing. I walked past his body, crumpled and compact, legs buckled, head twisted. I wanted to shout at the man still standing behind the skinny tree ‘How could you, why did you?’, but I knew it would be futile. To him it was a sport, a social event, an enjoyment. 

Vans, filled with hunters, sped past me as I walked on. Lots of old men, one young woman. For them this was a good day. There would be drinking and eating and perhaps more hunting. 

I just wanted to get back to the nudges and snuffles of Tache, Ben, and Max, and enjoy the privilege of the trust of a living animal. 

Hunting is France’s third favourite pastime after football and fishing. 

Around four million people in France have a licence to hunt. 

Ninety different species can be hunted – duck and rabbit, deer and boar. Some, like the lark, are endangered.

In 2020 there were one hundred and forty-one victims of hunting accidents, eleven of which were fatal. 

Fifty-five percent of French people have an unfavourable view of hunting. 

Information from France 24 News Channel.