For the past 21 years, we have exercised caution when going on our daily walk on hunting days (‘Not all traditions are good’: lethal accidents deepen French hunting divide, 2 January). We live in the middle of a French national forest where even driving to a safer location may involve running the gauntlet of hunters strung out along our forest road. Recently, we made an error of judgment and found ourselves in a remote spot surrounded by a pack of hunting dogs trying to flush out a wild boar.
My husband, who has always professed to not being able to sing, struck up a round of “What shall we do with the drunken sailor?”, while I, breathless with fear, could only muster a few profanities in French. We kept it up until we reached the safety of our gate, 20 minutes away. Needless to say, the notices that the hunters may or may not have posted at the entrance to the forest to warn people of hunting were totally useless to us.