Should you pop by the Camargue, you will be regaled by the sight and sound of their horses flitting to and fro quite happily, until they get eaten, that is. Wander North- East for a bit, and you will eventually wind up in Herefordshire, where the topic of their magnificent cows comes up occasionally over every breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner conversation. A few days swim to the West and you will land in Halifax, the best city in the world (not counting Ubud). Here you will encounter our own contribution to animal husbandry, the breathtaking Drosophila melanogaster halifaxus, or the Halifax fruit fly, for you laymen in the audience. Although not as filling as the other two examples, it, too, has become a regular guest in our meat dishes.

It was not always this way. Before our City counsel decided to donate a free fruit fly incubator - cleverly disguised as compost bins - to every household, these little critters were a rare sight in our neck of the woods. Once in a while a confused fly would pop into the city, have a sniff around, then leg it to the Annapolis Valley, where an ample supply of something edible could usually be found. Back then, Halifax was nothing but a pleasant stop-over, a resting place for weary wings.

Today, things have changed drastically. Having spotted our attractively green nesting grounds a dozen or so generations ago, the first Drosophila – let’s call him Bob for the sake of convenience – was quite pleased. He took an aerial tour, studied the layout, kicked the plastic walls of the container, measured it for furniture, then called every one of his comrades to notify them of his discovery of Shangri-la. As millions of his brothers and cousins poured into the city to check things out with their own red eyes, they declared themselves pleased. Bob became an instant hero, a sort of Columbus of the fruit fly world. Statues were erected, speeches made and Bob was given the honour to be the first fruit fly that summer to land in my ice tea. I remember him fondly.

Now, not everyone in Halifax became as avid a breeder of Bob and his cousins as yours truly. Where I saw a lovely herd, which with careful nurturing were to one day win the coveted blue ribbon at Halifax’s annual fair, she who must be worshipped just saw a lot of bulls eyes for her swatter. Thus, as my fly ranch expanded from the compost bin to cover the whole kitchen and selected parts of the dining room, an ultimatum was delivered by the currier: cull the herd or continue my activities somewhere in a kitchen near Vladivostok.

I toured Vladivostok, found it lacking and started to kill flies. We Haligonian are a flexible lot, so turning from gentle farmer to fly butcher was all in a day’s work. Swatters proved a useless as water canons on D-day, so I scoured the Internet and found the perfect trap: a jar of wine vinegar sealed with some plastic wrap perforated with hundreds of tiny holes. “Ingenuous”, I thought, and started to make a few hundred of them. Soon there was no cup, no saucer and no soup bowl left sans vinegar . The Royal Dolton, hitherto only used for Papal visits, nobly volunteered for the cause. I was certain that Bob and his cousins would welcome the gesture and be lured by the opulence of it all.

The luxurious theme was to continue as I ran out of ordinary vinegar. First it was its balsamic cousin, a little trifle we had picked up in Italy, that was used as a substitute. When its last drops vanished down the neck of our 18th century Royal crown Derby vase, it was time for the Château Lafite Rothschild Pauillac (1996 ) to make the ultimate sacrifice. She who must be worshipped seemed a bit alarmed, but I told her not to worry, since it was a well known fact that wine will turn into vinegar eventually. It had become clear to me that women understood little of the art of fly catching.

Or maybe not. It is well known in military circles, that any sort of trap works only if the trapee decides to play along. Hence, any elaborate ambush becomes a bit of a bust if the party to be ambushed chooses to stay home and watch television instead. The fruit flies in my kitchen must have figured this out. While a small minority decided to have a closer look, and an even smaller one – probably the accident prone amongst them – slipped through the odd hole, the majority voted to opt out and hunkered down in safer surroundings. It quickly became apparent, that my elaborate set-up had become another Maginot line. Defeat was at hand.

In situations such as these, we Haligonian think quickly on our feet. Instinctively then, I did what any right thinking citizen would do and booked a holiday in the Herefordshire. A retreat is best enjoyed with a good steak, after all .