Mrs Down's Diary

Few litters survived. As soon as they left the safety of their hiding places in the hay stacks, which was usually where they were born and reared, Bud found and killed them.

It was distressing but difficult to put a stop to. If the kittens survived long enough to get a bit of speed into their escape flight and had enough knowledge of the barn layouts to know where they could climb to safety they stood a chance '“ a very slim one.

The same rule went for rats. Bud has been an excellent ratter, but now, with his heart condition, we are loath to expose him to the thrills of the chase in case it is all too much for him. Plus he no longer seems as interested. Prefers to snuggle deep into the cat nest/tunnel we have for him beside the Rayburn and only come out for a drink, food and wee.

So, we have just emerged from a time of limbo between a rise in the number of cats from litters that have been able to live into maturity, an increase in the number of rats that have been able to multiply as there were not enough cats to kill them, and no terrier around to do the job for them.

The rats became remarkably bold. They would literally stroll around in broad daylight as if knowing there was nothing up to the job to tackle them. I even saw one by the back door and risked Bud's heart setting him on to it.

We have never been huge fans of rat poison because of the possibility of one of the dogs picking up a diseased corpse. John prefers traps. The problem is solved now that we have a healthy population of cats and kittens in the buildings. Not a rat or mouse in sight.

I was reminded of what a nuisance rats can be when we visited our friend Helen's house to pick up some Aylesbury eggs to sit under a bantie.

Her ducks are in full lay at the moment and she has a surplus of eggs. As our banties are all going broody, it is a great opportunity for us not to waste their egg-sitting talents.

Eggs safely in the Land Rover, we lingered to discuss the problem Helen was having catching one particular rat. As you do.

"It is leading a charmed life," she said. "I even know the way it moves now I've seen it so many times."

Slowly, my gaze was drawn to a huge rat waddling out of the pig sty, replete from pig meal and unusually slow in its movements. More of an amble than a scuttle.

"Is it that one?" I asked casually. It was.

John picked up a fallen branch (the sty is sited picturesquely under a tree for shade) and in a trice leapt into the sty after the rat.

"Careful!" Helen shouted "The sow is vicious.

"She's still got her piglets."

In another trice John leapt out of the sty '“ but not before having dealt the rat a couple of blows.

By now Helen's terrier had sensed game on and was after the rat for the mortal crunch along the backbone that Jack Russells specialise in.

And Mrs Pig had charged out ready for her own game on with anybody foolish enough to have strayed into her territory after her babies.

In seconds the mood had changed from rural bucolic to battlefield carnage.

That's the countryside for you.