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!

A new girlfriend, Krins and I had been seeing each other for just a few weeks when I suggested that she joined me for a romantic stroll through a local woodland with the dogs.

The rain had been enough to make Noah's storm look like a puddle, this being the first day for quite some time without a never ending stream of water falling from the sky. At the bottom of the wooded valley is a small river meandering through steep banks gorged into the limestone. The river becomes swollen very quickly as any rain water falling on the nearby moor runs off into the steep drop of the tight banked river, changing it from a babbling brook into a raging torrent in spate.

Arm in arm, we walked through the puddle filled valley admiring the trees coming into bud and the purple hew caused by carpets of bluebells starting to break through the rich soil. Charlie and Digit were left to run infront of us, following their noses and exploring the slightest scent in case it would lead them to some gamey prize. Each time one of the dogs veered a little to close to the fast moving water a quick blast of the whistle would steer them out of harms way and back into the jungle of straight hazel shafts.

I heard it before I saw it; it was the splashing sound of Charlie hitting the water as she leapt from the bank in pursuit of some smell or other. Bugger, this could mean trouble.

At full gallop I sprinted ahead of Krins and rounded the bend in the river to see Charlie desperately trying to stay afloat and make it to the bank.

The bank on the other side of the river, only fifteen feet or so across the surface, was a little more shallow and would make a much easier route for Charlie to escape. Charlie being a typical "Daddy's girl" didn't think to try a different route despite my desperate gestures and vociferous instructions; she just kept on trying to get to me by the shortest distance possible, and she was failing badly.

Looking for inspiration, I noticed that a limb of a huge beech tree spanned the expanse of water, giving me a possible route to the other side of the river from where I could easily help Charlie out.

"Hold Digit, tightly" I barked (pardon the pun) as I reached up to grasp the thick branch, beginning the monkey like traverse with my feet dangling just a few inches above the surface of the water. I didn't get far.

Charlie had seen me and was tracking my progress as best as she could, following my feet across the river towards the opposite bank. Just as I reached the mid-way point we heard a loud crack. Krins screamed as the branch gave way under the load (sounds better than writing "under my weight"), depositing me fully clothed and with wellies on into ten feet of fast moving and very cold water.

As soon as I resurfaced I made a grab for Charlie, holding her tight whilst we drifted downstream. Karen screamed again; I turned my head towards her just in time to see Digit speeding past me in the current. Luckily for him spaniels have long ears; I just about managed to grab one and pull him to me before he disappeared out of reach.

So there we were; me almost totally submerged as I struggled to stay afloat with the weight of all of my clothes, my wellies, and the two dogs, whilst Krins was on the bank with her head in her hands thinking that I was a total mad man.

The current took us very quickly seventy yards or so downstream where I managed to steer towards a shallow bank and climb out. Krins just stood staring at me in disbelief as I appeared before her looking like a nearly drowned rat.

One or two very heavy drops of rain heralded the start of another imminent down pour. I looked up at the clouds for a brief moment, then looked back into her steely blue eyes and said "We'd better head back to the car before we get wet". With a smile, she took me by the hand and lead me towards the waiting car.

Please note: dogs are exceptional swimmers, and will usually escape waters far beyond the capability of any human. Entering any body of water to rescue a dog should be deemed as sheer stupidity and irresponsible, traits that I often demonstrate well. DON'T DO IT!

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".