There are times I really feel for men in the 21st century.

They are poor, confused angst-ridden souls who have to combine old ideas of manliness with touchy-feely merde of being at one with their inner femininity.

These days they're not only expected to bring home the bacon but know at least 150 ways to cook it, serve it and wash up after it.

Gone are the days of the stiff upper lip and the manly, protective arm around the "old girl's" slight shoulder. Those were the days when a firm hand on the back was an outpouring of love and occasionally a prelude to lust.

Now empathy is all and tears are a sign of emotional maturity; learning to say "I feel" instead of "I think"; to "support", to "nurture"; to be part of "team couple"; hugging, a ritual, daily expectation.

At the same time, of course, we twisted, tricky women expect them to have the looks and potential killing power of Daniel Craig as James Bond when he emerged from the sea in those blue trunks matching his cold, distant eyes. (Steady, old girl, steady.)

No wonder the poor buggers swallow Prozac with their fizzy water instead of a pie and a pint when things get rough.

Well, here in the boondocks where the 21st century is still somewhere in the future, our men have yet to grasp such concepts, although, if pushed they might admit to having seen them on the telly. Then spit.

No, being a REAL man in rural France is awfully easy. Being a real man is being a chasseur, a hunter; one whose idea of retail therapy is a binge on camouflage trousers with multi-pockets, matching kepi, khaki T-shirts and kick-ass boots.

Real men, for six or so months of the year, spend every weekend, often Mondays and usually Wednesdays, meeting other real men to kill anything on that month's killing tick list. Or sometimes each other – on average, around 30 each year.

They leave the house at 5am, convene for breakfast – dried sausage, cold meats, bread, red wine and Armagnac – curse, fart, tell filthy jokes, occasionally fire at an animal, then break for lunch.

For lunch there's much more of the same but with flasks of stews and soups added – they continue until they break for the final meal of the day, rolling home ecstatically happy around 10pm. At home they have the woman, the wife, the bidey-in. The woman who knows her place.

Sometimes, at the between-seasons chasse lunches, the women are permitted to come and join in but usually disappear before the men start dancing with each other; eyeing hot-shots at neighbouring villages' tables, desperate to be introduced. The men, that is, not the women.

It's the one meal in the year the women don't cook. A whole wild boar on a spit over coals and wood is man's work. The women chew on the often inedible chunks and smile feigned gratitude. The men hunch their shoulders to their ears in puffed pride and lick their hunting knives after each mouthful.

But, as we know, pride comes before a fall. And, ever since that apple, women are the accepted cause.

Even in France it is seeping through to La Profonde that women have, er, rights and, er, equality.

So it has been quietly pointed out to the country's one and a half million chasseurs that only 1.5% are female and maybe they should up that number.

Sarah is an English woman. Her husband, also English, joined the local chasse because he'd shot in England and also saw it as a way to integrate with the community.

They're in their forties and therefore vibrant, in contrast to the usual expat retirees. They also have more French friends than British.

They bought and trained a hunt hound and Sarah thought it would be good to join James in the sport.

The rules are strict, involving exams in both theory and practice, before a licence is granted. Sarah went and was the only woman at the first training session in a hall with 50 men.

She sat at the front and found herself with empty seats beside her. She sent me this email: "I was quite dismayed that as the room filled up nobody wanted to take the seats and it wasn't until every other seat was occupied that a bloke took the seat next me then turned around so his back was facing me – bearing in mind everyone was saying bonjour, doing the kissy-kissy thing I felt as though I didn't exist. It was nothing to do with me being English because I didn't open my mouth -

"I told my French girlfriend that I was taking the exam and she asked me if my mother was disappointed with me. I asked why and she said because surely she didn't want me to be a man and that it wasn't very feminine."

Sarah now has her licence. Her husband, on her instructions, has made it clear she won't come for the meals or in reality, most hunts. They'd work as a pair, alone.

We have a long way to go here. Both men and women.

Must men be exclusively metrosexual or macho? How about some rendezvous in between?

cookfidelma@hotmail.com