It all started very early one Sunday morning not long after I'd moved onto the farm. Saturday night had seen me hitting the local clubs and strutting my stuff; my unique combination of exotic dance moves performed elephantine grace would have been enough to make even John Travolta or David Brend jealous.

The deafening knock at the door resounded around my skull. It seemed as though my body had only just touched the sheets, but I slid off of the hot mattress and teetered gingerly down the steep stairs towards the heavy oak sheet protecting my eyes from the glare of the sun. Admittedly it was nearly eight already, and I do rant, rave, and preach to anyone that will listen the benefits of getting up as early as possible, so he probably wasn't expecting me to be in bed.

Slowly and painfully, I creaked open the door with cat-like eyes "Just to let you know that the water'll be off when you wake up. There's a problem with the well" was the welcome from Farmer. "Thanks." I replied "When I wake up"?

There was no point going back to bed. The dogs had heard me stir and were up, and now, somewhat reluctantly, so was I.

I washed my face in what was left of the cold water as it dribbled encouragingly from the steel tap. Splashing the refreshingly cool well water onto my clammy skin I looked at my reflection in the wall mounted mirror (after all, what are mirrors for?). My heavy workload and hectic social life was taking its toll; "character lines" were appearing where the skin was once taut, and dark heavy shadows had appeared under my eyes: I looked worn-out.

A fascination with the English language and a desperate longing to focus on something, anything, other than the heavy bass still pounding in my eardrums drew me to a dictionary to find out the actual definition of "worn-out":

"1. Threadbare, valueless, or useless". Maybe I wasn't worn-out after all; maybe I was just a little tired.

Later that day recounting the story of my sleepless night to a friend, The Matron, over coffee she likened my description of events to the style of the columnist featuring in the American feminist comedy "Sex in the City". "You should write a column" she exclaimed. "Me? Write a column? Never!"

So was born the concept of "The Country Bachelor". Glimpses of the very different life of a born again bachelor (aka divorcee) as he merges his recently single life with city tendencies and his love of everything country.

We decided that my recent move to a farm at the back of beyond, and the daily antics of me, my neighbours, and my friends, could make for some interesting light hearted reading.

Several coffees passed (literally) before we realised the major flaw in the plan; I had never written much more than my name before, so this little project could prove to be difficult.

An accident a few years ago had left with the belief, rightly or wrongly, that I can do anything I like, all I have to do is try (and, find someone agreeable!). So was born "The Country Bachelor"

I had only lived in the house for a few weeks when Farmer and Farmers Wife from next door invited me around for a few glasses of red and told me stories of mysterious noises at night and glimpses of spectral apparitions descending the old staircase.

The house is in the middle of nowhere surrounded by nothing but fields, woods, and the remains of the old mine workings. Even though I'm a bit of a realist and find it hard to believe such nonsense, I have to admit that the stories did play on my mind giving me goosebumps at the slightest creak, knock or bump.

One night a few weeks later I was feeling a little soft in my old age, so decided to let the dogs settle in the comfort of the house for a change instead of the kennel. I washed down my candlelit supper for one with a few glasses of the finest heather nectar and stumbled up the creaky stairs to my waiting bed. Eventually the dogs settled in the hall, and as they did, I slipped into another world where I looked strikingly like James Bond, drove an extremely flashy new Aston, and had two stunningly beautiful women attached to my arms everywhere I went.

The hours passed, and as the time came nearer to morning than evening, my nights rest was very rudely disturbed. Charlie, my bombproof Labrador, let out an almighty bark, then both dogs flew up the stairs, bashed their way through the bedroom door, and ended up grumbling away underneath the duvet.

Bleary eyed, confused, and furious, I flung the duvet back to reveal their hiding place and ordered them to remove themselves at once. They looked at each other, looked back at me, then refused point blank to budge.

Now I know that Charlie, being a typical woman, often decides that what I want her to do isn't necessarily the same as what she is going to do, but Digit, my little cocker had never argued with me before.

Something had obviously bothered them, but what I had no idea.

As I stood pondering my next action I heard the sound. It was the sound of someone, or something, tapping on glass. In a semi-delirious state I decided that it must be Farmer trying to wake me delicately to help with some crisis or other on the farm. Pushing the dogs to the top of the stairs, and motioning for them to head back downhill, I was more than a little surprised when they growled and again refused to move.

Feeling the acid levels rising I collected up both in my arms and carried them down. They would go whether they wanted to or not.

There it was again; the sound of someone tapping on glass. The spooky sound was emanating from the living room. Being the big brave man that I am, I sent the dogs forward to investigate. Again, they refused point blank. This time hackles were up and both dogs were emitting a very deep low growl.

Now I'm no coward (apart from with spiders), but this was bothering me. The stories of a few nights before were resounding in my head. The hallway suddenly felt very cold; goose pimples covered every inch of my skin and the hairs on the back of my neck were standing starkly to attention. Frozen to the spot, I took a few seconds to muster every ounce (or seeing as we are now governed by Brussels should it now be gram?) of courage that I could, then tossed Charlie into the room.

She didn't last long. A blood curdling yelp, and milliseconds later she was cowering behind me shaking like a nettle leaf in a summer breeze, and I wasn't in much better condition myself. Digit had sensed that he could be the next canine sacrifice so he'd already made haste back to the comparative safety of the duvet

The minutes passed slowly as I stood trying to pluck up the courage to do something, anything. Whatever was in there had certainly spooked the dogs, and now me.

What was I thinking of? I'm 33 (well, I was then) and don't believe in ghosts and fairytales. Time for action

Drawing myself up to my full height of five feet six and a bit, I took a deep breath to puff out my otherwise unimpressive chest and made a valiant dash through the living room door.

Still holding my breath in the middle of the room I stopped and listened. Before my oxygen starved body had started to alter to a slightly bluer hue, the noise started again; a definite and frenzied, albeit light, tapping on glass. The trouble was, as I looked through the window, nobody was stood at the other side.

If I was cold a few minutes before, I was freezing now. As the hairs all over my body strained at their roots trying to desert my obviously doomed skin, tears formed in the corners of my eyes and I contemplated my inevitable and probably very painful fate.

Even worse, realisation was creeping in that the tapping was coming from inside of the big, black, and lifeless old woodburning stove. What poor wretched being had perished in a horrific manner and was now returning to exact some form of revenge on mankind?

Turning my head owl-like towards the hearth, my ghostly tormentor slowly but surely revealed itself. The sound of the tapping was still there but was being drowned out by the gallons of blood rushing through my ears. It emerged from the blackness at the back of the stove to strike the glass again as it drummed out its ghostly message.

There it was, a beak. A beak? A small beak at that.

Now breathing again, I opened the doors of the stove to release the poor little house martin from its somewhat sooty captivity. As though it knew its way around the house already, it made straight for the open window and out into the greyness of the new day.

It was five in the morning, and I needed another glass of the hard stuff already!

With hindsight it was a foolish decision, and an even more foolish offer.

My "ladyfriend" at the time, Krins, and I were semi-living together. She had a small holding of around six acres with a few chickens in one of those electrified run things which gives them about a quarter of an acre of space to run around in but keeps the foxes out, a beautiful garden which is her pride and joy, and a fair sized paddock.

The paddock is edged by grass banks, and that was the problem. The banks had to be strimmed constantly to keep down the triffid like weeds and the giant nettles which seemed as though they could sting you by sight alone. Krins' father, "The Monster", took it upon himself to make this his mission. For two whole days every fortnight Monster would attack the banks with a selection of petrol strimmers and other tortuous looking instruments in his bid to beat nature.

The sun was coming up on the other side of the bungalow as I sat drinking coffee and eating my Sunday morning bacon buttie when the solution presented itself in the form of an ad in the local classifieds section: "Two goats, free to good home. Must have access to good grazing."

Like a schoolchild having made a new discovery I ran into the kitchen (which got me into trouble for not removing my wellies) to seek out Krins and present her with my solution.

That same afternoon we found ourselves winding down country lanes at the back of beyond trying to find two friendly goats in the middle of a field. Using astral navigation techniques, comprehensive directions, and a fair bit of guesswork we pulled up at the gate to the field in the borrowed Transit van "just to look".

Why is it that from time to time adults regress to early childhood practises? I suddenly found myself begging "Oh please Krins? They won't be any trouble and I'll look after them?" The decision was made, and we agreed to return on the Friday afternoon to collect our two new friends.

Everything was worked out. Whilst the goats settled in they would live in a lean-to in the chicken run, eventually moving out to a field shelter when we had finished building it. The one thing that we hadn't factored in was that Krins was off on holiday for a week to a family wedding. "No problem" I said, "leave everything with me, it'll be fine"

Famous last words.

Krins left as planned on the Friday evening, and I was to stay for the week and look after the menagerie. The goats quickly and quietly settled into the chicken run, the chickens didn't seem too bothered, the cat was fine, and the dogs were the same as ever. All was well with the world, so I had one or two glasses of the red stuff, and hit the sack.

Curtains and bedrooms don't mix in my world; I like to wake up and see the day as it is as soon as I open my eyes. So being mid summer I woke at first light and looked at the cloudless sky and goats through the bedroom window.

Goats? What the hell were the goats doing looking at me through the bedroom window? They were meant to be in the chicken run nibbling away at the grass and behaving impeccably as I had planned in my dream.

Anybody would have thought that the bed was full of holly leaves with the speed that I leapt from it and dashed outside in my boxers. Throwing open the back door I was confronted by absolute carnage.

The fence which formed the chicken run had been flattened and the forty or so chickens were playing at being fox bait as they clucked around the paddock. The food and water feeders had been up-ended so corn was everywhere, the tables on the patio were upside down, and Krins' garden had been half eaten. The garden! I was closer to death than a lamb at Lloyd Maunders.

In a sudden state of panic my hyperactive mind decided that the first job was to put the fence back up so that the birds could be herded back in out of the foxes' way, followed by the goats. Fence up, electric on.

Billy and Benny, the goats, were fine where they were grazing on Hazel Contorta (a kind of shrub, not, as I first thought a character from "Harry Potter"). I was in trouble anyway, one more shrub wasn't going to make any difference. The chickens had to be first so that they were out of the way of any marauding foxes.

Rounding up the chickens outside of the pen was easy; you simply walk them towards the pen and they follow the fence around until they reach the entrance where I had brilliantly set up a system to funnel them inside. Job done.

Actually, the job wasn't done. Our favourite little black bantam Caroline was still out on the bank enjoying her freedom. In the interests of her own safety, and mine if anything had happened to her, she had to be caught.

An amusing game ensued as Caroline lead me a merry dance around the rose bushes and trees. I was covered in grass burns and had green knees ( I was still in my boxers, but did have wellies on) from trying to pounce on her. My next tactic was to lull her into a false sense of security by feigning disinterest, then pounce when she was least expecting it.

The plan was working. Caroline had relaxed and was pecking away on the grass bank above the pen when I pounced. Success! I had her. The trouble was, I may have had the chicken but I had lost my balance and was tumbling down the bank still clutching said bird.

The first jolt of electricity pulsed through me as soon as I became entangled with the string mesh fence. Both legs had gone through the netting, the fence had collapsed on top of me, the chickens were making a break for freedom once again, the dogs decided I was playing, and the goats wanted to "help" by nibbling at the only stitch of clothing that was covering my modesty as I laid there getting electrocuted every couple of seconds.

Eventually, when the place was a little more organised, the goats followed me back into the chicken run without fuss. By the end of the day I was totally exhausted and sat back to relax in the summer evening sun with a glass of Pimms watching the goats peacefully grazing.

That was probably the longest week of my life as the goats terrorised the chickens, turned the feeders over and emptied them of food, broke into the hen houses, squashed the fence on a daily basis, and created absolute mayhem at every opportunity.

By the time Krins got back the following weekend I had made many repairs and some improvements to the pen. Billy and Benny had settled a little better into their new surroundings and routine of daily grazing away from the birds and walks (yes, I did walk them on leads!), and all was well with the world.

We sat on the grass in the paddock that evening looking over the bids and animals doing their own thing; "Have you had a nice relaxing week?" she enquired, "Yes" I lied "Couldn't have been easier".