We’ve gone for a walk outside of Rome and I’m on the lookout for birds and butterflies. I wander through a loose hedge and look out across a field of grain. There’s the top of a hairy head and a waving tail in the middle of the field. I hear an angry grunt and decide to back off slowly. It’s a Cinghiale, a Wild Boar, and I definitely don’t want to have an argument with it. Back on the path, wary of a large Wild Boar appearing, we see a large group of tiny Wild Boar charging towards us. It’s the worst possible situation. They’re beautiful, peaceful animals until a mother feels her young are threatened. We don’t want to be anywhere near them.
There may be five, six or even seven of them. It’s hard to count they are moving so erratically and they’re all legs and skittishness. Luckily they spot us and decide to run into the field to be with their mother.
Phew, that was close.
I love their stripy humbug backs and sensitive noses, but at a safe distance.
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