THERE IS an owl living in the covered courtyard at the back of my house. My gardener first pointed it out following the large splashes over my car that shares the space.

I ignored him. I cannot have owls anywhere near me or I’m about to die.

So I decided it was a large collard dove. Or three.

However, I cannot ignore it any more. For the last few weeks every time I go out I hear it hooting. One night, it, I presume it, flew away from the front door.

The flapping of its wings was way beyond mere friendly flutters.

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So I keep my eyes down when I go forth with Cesar in the night hours but I cannot close my ears.

Damned then.

Owls are said to follow my father’s family and to appear, even in the heart of the city, and sit outside before a death.

My mother swore one arrived two nights before my father’s death and left immediately afterwards.

Representations of owls, even on cards, were never allowed in the house and even now I drop my eyes if one comes on the television.

It is hardly a surprise then that I am a very superstitious person. My life is ruled by many little touchstones and quirks and always has been.

Being Irish and old Catholic, I always say when arranging a meet or a meal: God willing.

It is necessary to do so to stave off accident or death.

I am unable to book holidays, weekends – hell – lunches too far ahead of time in case I call down the wrath of the gods at my presumption.

Driving around the French country roads I’m en garde for magpies. Every one I see, I salute..literally...and say: Good morning, Mr Magpie.

There are an awful lot of magpies in the countryside. The locals probably think I have a distressing tic.

It’s a very Irish riding thing. On horseback you’d better give the bird its place or you’ll be flung off before the day is done for your impertinence.

When I’m shown a baby in a pram, I say: How lovely. Then, silently, say God Bless Them, in case some listening, evil entity swoops down to give them bad fortune or crossed eyes.

I touch wood, throw salt over my shoulder, cross fingers, rub door plates and give thanks to enter, and even turn silver in my pockets while looking at the full moon.

A moon I never, ever see, through glass.

And when I go to bed I have a ritual of night prayers to get me through. And if I don’t get through the night, then hopefully I’ve covered some of the options on my way to….wherever.

I know many of my superstitious quirks relate only to my past history so I ran some by Miriam.

Owls...yes…death. Not for anyone in particular. Just death. However, if a pregnant woman sees an owl it means she’s having a baby girl.

Magpies? Bad birds, but no saluting.

Salt over shoulder? Yes, says Miriam, but both shoulders. Interestingly, it appears that in France one can pass salt to one’s neighbour without passing them trouble. But never knives and never knives as gifts as the friendship will be cut.

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However one must not put a baguette upside down on the table for that is to invite famine through the door.

Cross fingers? Of course...and toes.

We differ when it comes to black cats. A black cat crossing my path is good luck. In France, very bad. Very, very bad.

In Normandy, seeing a tortoiseshell cat means you’ll die in an accident.

But black, linked to the Devil, is the worst. It’s why black dogs, black cats, linger in the rescue centres and ultimately are put down before any others.

I got quite worried arriving here and discovering a horseshoe nailed upside down, the opposite to what we do and very bad luck.

Here it’s turned down to let good luck shower on the house and the inhabitants. I didn’t turn it around on the basis that local belief trumps mine but I still eye it suspiciously. The one thing, of course I couldn’t do, was simply remove it.

Naturally all our superstitions come down to the difficulties of history: to the time we live in and our beliefs.

I know all that, but knowing things does not eradicate centuries of inbred ‘true’ knowledge.

Remember, I’m the child who grew up leaving food and milk out for the fairies to keep them sweet and on our side. A bad fairy, trust me, is the bitterest enemy you will ever have.

Recently I’ve heard there’s a new young (relatively young) sorciere in a nearby village.

I sense Nathalie, by her evasions, knows of this witch and could take me to her. I need to see her soon for a charm, a spell to save me from the owl.

Roslyn, my last cleaner, who drew pain from my back and flung it out of the window, would have helped.

Instead I tell myself I live in the country. So do owls. But why have I never heard one in all the years here?Why has it arrived now?

Perhaps I’ll be fine if I don’t see its face.

Touch wood. Please God.