Ah the country – fresh air, animals … and hot women.

Few could fail to notice how many beautiful ladies come from the most random rural nooks.

I am not talking about actual forest dwellers but rather those who live in idyllic little settlements.

You know the type – they look like they ride horses.

Perhaps it is my naivety, but I like to imagine these country types would possess the kind of wholesomeness I crave in my life.

Probably brought up on a hearty diet of rearing pigs and growing turnips, they are like free-range women.

I have dated a few country foxes and have always been impressed by their hardiness and self-sufficiency.

I remember a gorgeous girl refusing to let me help her carry a sack of coal despite the fact her tiny biceps were bulging in an unsightly way.

During one visit, I found this friend plumbing and was led into the bathroom to help her carry the toilet out to the garden.

I begged her to call in a professional, fearing any minute she may pick up a sledgehammer and batter through a dividing wall.

Despite having lived part of my life in rural areas, I was never good at being a country person.

A bumpkin friend of mine gasped in horror as I poked fun at a funny-looking bird only to find out it was a bat.

This incident was followed by an almost identical one concerning a donkey I had written off as an ugly pony.

I was roundly ridiculed for these errors but, the way I see it, animals are for eating, not for looking at.

I always feared my ignorance would be exposed at an agricultural show – those fanatics would not indulge a city-slicking journalist who thought a lady goat was a sheep.

Thankfully, the pressure was taken off when a photographer from a rival paper knelt on and killed a runaway goose that had won all manner of goose accolades.

As the angry remonstrations and finger-pointing started, I sidled off to hide in the press tent.