Country life is not for the faint-hearted, It is red in both tooth and claw. Yet it happens time and time again that a city dweller has a totally unrealistic chocolate box idea of the country and without a great deal of research foolishly ups sticks and moves to what they think will be a rural idyll.
But there's nothing idyllic about mucking out your own husband's shit. Nothing idyllic about having a ewe vomit into your face as your husband pulls out a bloody, gunky newly-born lamb as his shit runs down his legs into his Wellington boots. Nothing idyllic about having to drive 30 miles to a chemist for Imodium as your husband sits in the back of the Land Rover, shitting into a bucket. Nothing idyllic about having your husband shit on you during intercourse as he cannot control his bowels as he ejaculates. Nothing idyllic about hosting a dinner party round the Aga and as you tuck into your organic lamb you hear your husband in the adjoining lavatory, evacuating for England. Nothing idyllic about having lunch in a quiet country pub and your husband coming out of the Gents letting loose a noxious smell which permeates the bar for the next 20 minutes.
No, country living is no bed of roses. But I would not want it any other way.