As winter approaches, the sound of dogs barking and the noise of various animals crying out around the village, is drowned out by the sound of chainsaws and log-cutting machines. Huge stacks of timber, delivered direct from the forest, adorn the streets. Sweating villagers toil to convert them into logs, and carry them into the yard, ready for the petchka and their winter warmth.

As is our habit, we left the hustle and bustle of the city and went to our village house for the weekend. Our tyres crunched through the fast-falling leaves, as I carefully picked my way down the village street. Approaching our house, we spied our unusually smartly dressed neighbour, walking unsteadily down the street. He waved his arms for us to stop. He was a little worse for wear, smelling strongly of drink. He insisted that he come round with a bottle of his new 2009 wine to share with us. Backing the car into our yard, we unpacked the luggage. Within 10 minutes the neighbour was rattling on our gate, with the red wine contained in a one-and-a-half litre, ex-mineral water, plastic bottle. It was a warm, pleasant afternoon and we sat in the garden sipping the tasty brew.

On closer inspection he was not so smart, with wine stains down his shirt, and the usual cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. He was a little drunk and kept spilling the wine on the table, flicking cigarette ash all over everything. It’s a bit difficult to understand him at the best of times due to his country accent, and the fact that most of his teeth are missing, but now my wife could hardly understand what he was saying. She commented that he looked very smart and had even combed his hair. "Is it your birthday or something?" "No, no," he said, "I’ve been to the funeral of the oldest woman in the village; she was 95 and only her bad temper and rakiya kept her alive!"

Our conversation turned to Christmas. "Would you like to come to the traditional killing of the pig? Perhaps you could bring a bottle of whisky?" he said. Many villagers still rear a pig specifically to provide the Christmas feast, as well as meat for winter. It’s something of a ceremony to attend the killing and the start of the butchering. Not being used to witnessing the killing of animals for food, I swiftly declined with some muttered excuse. The conversation then turned to the cages of rabbits, together with the other animals that he kept in his yard. "Do you like rabbit stew? Perhaps you will join us for this meal next weekend?" We both like this dish, and readily agreed with pleasure, which was a little marred when he said "you can come and kill the rabbit and I will skin and gut it". I swiftly declined this part of the opportunity, my city dweller’s susceptibilities balking at such a thing. 

As the autumn light began to fail, we had consumed the bottle of wine with some snacks of cheese and salami, and he staggered back to his house next door to sleep it off.
However, even through his alcoholic haze, he did remember that he had promised to bring round his machine in the morning and cut up all the waste wood that was left from the earlier demolition of a collapsed barn, now stacked in various piles around our garden. He duly arrived with his son, dragging behind them an ancient log-cutting machine, powered by an even older-looking electric motor. After the customary repairs, and problems starting it, the machine eventually whirred into life as they set about collecting and cutting the wood. As they worked away with volleys of curses and arguments, we began stacking the logs around the base of the house in a handy position for the winter. 

It was a warm day and after a couple of hours of torment from the flies and some back-breaking work, we began to truly understand the hard life of the villager. We thankfully positioned the last few logs, covered the stacks with plastic sheets to protect them from the winter storms and gazed happily at this food for our hungry stove, dreaming of cold winter evenings, warmed by its cosy glow.