Last updated 05:34, Friday, 06 June 2008

If it’s possible to see an expression of despondency over the phone – which is doubtful – she must have seen mine.

“Ah-ha,” she said (she says ah-ha quite a lot). “Understand now? You don’t adopt the countryside. The countryside adopts you.”

“But eight! I can’t believe it! Eight molehills. I’ve only been away a week.”

“Welcome to Cumbria.”

No sympathy there then. No soothing commiseration, not a “there-there” nor even a “don’t worry”. Just another “ah-ha,” mention of killer traps, criticism of farmers – who used to cull the intruders but don’t anymore – and recommendation of local catcher who charges £1 a mole... at mates’ rates.

I can afford £1 but apparently that won’t be the end of it – nor even the beginning of the end.

It hadn’t occurred to me there may be more than one. Mine’s only a little lawn and – as mentioned previously – already hosts a married couple of pheasants, a courting pair of hopalong collared doves and the usual cluster of scowling crows – when next door’s cat isn’t on the prowl.

You’d think moles might prefer a touch more privacy than full occupancy by such a menagerie.

They’re shy, aren’t they... or was that only in Wind in the Willows?

“I was thinking my mole might fancy a more salubrious garden and move on,” I twined. “To yours.”

“Don’t think so. I’ve got my own problems,” she said.

In all honesty, she has. Rabbits are eating her flowers – colour co-ordinated for maximum impact – as fast as she can plant them, and a heron is suspected of pinching fish from her pond.

She’s also had her share of moles and can tend to be a tad obsessive about the pesky little blighters. The countryside has adopted her garden in a big way... but hers is a very big garden.

Steve, nice man who rescues my little garden from the ravages of neglect for which I’m renowned, shook his head, sucked in air through pursed lips, taking it deeply into his lungs. Clearly not a smoker – he never coughed. Not even once.

“No chance.”

“It won’t move on then?”

“Not a hope. There’s more than one under there. They’ll keep coming back, making more and more mess. You need a molecatcher. I know a chap...”

Hence the dilemma. Do I have the heart to kill a mole – maybe even a family of moles and their friends? And if I don’t, can I live with the mountainous molehills in my lawn? It’s a toughie. Moles vs Garden. On a par with Greys vs Reds... I don’t know! I just don’t know!

I did read somewhere that moles aren’t the little gents Windy Willows cracked them up to be. They’re sex mad at this time of year; tunnelling frantically under lawns such as mine, chasing lady moles with whom they have their wicked way before moving on to charm another hapless victim of passion.

“Did the earth move for you dear?”

“Most certainly, it’s piled up on Anne’s lawn.”

But a penchant for promiscuous fast-track romance shouldn’t condemn any creature to capital punishment – with which I’ve never agreed. If it did, imagine the mayhem on a Friday in Carlisle at turning out time. Love is blind. So are moles.

Culture shock. That’s what it is. I’ve never had moles before, have yet to see a red squirrel and am only now getting used to hosting Mr and Mrs Pheasant. Be fair – we didn’t get much countryside adoption in Dewsbury. We grew up feeding nuts to cute greys. Here we’re supposed to massacre them to favour superior reds... which feels to me like turning suddenly, hatefully racist.

It’s hard being a countryside adoptee. Getting harder – two more molehills and counting. As I moved out for my holiday, moles moved in for theirs. Now I’m encouraged to hire a contract killer to shift them.

“I wish they’d just go.”

“They won’t,” she said. “But better news is the fish are swimming in the pond again.”

“They came back?”

“I think you’ll find they never went anywhere to come back from. Fish don’t do that.”

“Right. The heron was wrongly accused then. See my point about capital punishment?”

“It’s illegal to kill heron... unlike moles.”

Best not tell them that. At least not until they and I have had meaningful discussions about the wisdom of their moving on to more suitable lodgings.

Another helpful soul offered one more remedy of not quite last resort. Sure-fire success, he insisted. He’d seen it in the back of a Sunday supplement, where they sell zip-up slippers and one-size thermal nighties with elasticated cuffs.

“You need a vibrator,” he said boldly.

Quite shocking, actually. I’m not sure I’ll ever fully adapt to this countryside adoption thing.