Our garden was teeming with life. It lay in the middle of farmland, surrounded by vast maize fields that had been poisoned with pesticides and drenched in liquid manure. Our plot covered just under 7,000 square metres — a wildflower meadow shaded by mature trees and bordered by shrubs.

The shrubs provided nesting places for every imaginable songbird, while the tall trees were home to crows and wood pigeons. We never used poison anywhere on our land — not even against slugs. No poison of any kind.

It became a little paradise. We even left the caterpillars' food plants — usually dismissed as weeds — to grow undisturbed. There was a tiny pond as well, which attracted countless insects, including the most beautiful dragonflies.

The entrance to our house faced north and was sheltered by a wooden canopy. During the summer we always entered the house through the garden and across the terrace so as not to disturb the blackcap that had built her nest in a hanging cactus beside our front door.

Along the northern garden path I had planted a flower bed filled with miniature roses. They flourished there, and I loved them dearly.

Apparently, I wasn't the only one.

A doe rabbit chose our garden as a safe place to raise her young. (A roe deer had done the same on one occasion.) The leverets grew up regarding our garden as home, and one cheeky youngster became so accustomed to us that he would calmly feed only an arm's length away.

One day my husband and I left the house to drive to the supermarket. There sat the little rascal in front of my rose bed, happily helping himself. The blossoms were wonderfully sweet and full of nectar. As we stepped outside, he paused and looked at us, but made no attempt to run away.

I said to him, quite loudly,

"Did it really have to be my roses of all things?"

He looked me up and down... then down and up again... and once more from top to bottom.

Finally, he turned away with magnificent disdain and resumed his leisurely meal as though nothing whatsoever had happened.

It is remarkably sobering — and wonderfully character-building — not to be taken seriously.