Nine light bulbs, one wheelbarrow and a lively bunch of squirrels....

Everyone dreams of their first night on a farm. Peaceful sunsets. The sounds of nature. A glass of wine under the stars.

Reality, as we discovered, had slightly different plans.

We arrived full of excitement, only to discover that Bruno had declared war on the garden statues. Apparently, in his mind, they were highly suspicious intruders who had infiltrated the property while we weren't looking.

He spent a considerable amount of time bravely defending us from these silent stone enemies.

Inside the house, things weren't going much smoother.

The sinks were blocked. The pool pump had stopped working. And then came what can only be described as The Great Light Switch Mystery.

No matter what we tried, we could not figure out how to switch off some of the lights. We wandered from room to room pressing every switch we could find, convinced we were missing something obvious. Eventually, I reached my limit. My dressing gown belt had already failed spectacularly as a makeshift eye mask, and I was determined to sleep.

Poor Darryl was enlisted into service.

One by one, he unscrewed globe after globe after globe.

By the time he was finished, approximately nine light bulbs had been removed, and the house looked as though it was preparing for a power crisis. But victory was ours. Darkness had finally been achieved.

Or so we thought.

As if blocked sinks, mystery light switches and rooftop squirrel parties weren't enough excitement for one day, the farm decided to test me in a far more personal way.

You see, I have a slight gecko phobia.

And by "slight," I mean I would prefer to admire them from a safe distance measured in kilometres.

Naturally, when it came time to choose a bathroom, I carefully selected one, only to discover that it seemed to have a resident gecko of impressive proportions living quite comfortably behind the toilet cistern. Judging by his confidence, he'd probably been there longer than the house itself.

Trying to recover from this discovery, I moved on to selecting a cupboard for my clothes. What could possibly go wrong?

I opened the cupboard door and nearly introduced my hand to another gecko face-to-face. I believe I set a new farm land-speed record in reverse.

At this point, Darryl was called into action once again.

The cupboard gecko was carefully and safely relocated outside, where he could continue his farm adventures without giving me a heart attack. The bathroom gecko, however, proved more elusive. After a strategic application of Go Gecko and leaving the window wide open to encourage a voluntary relocation programme, I decided the situation was under control.

Or at least controlled enough for me to sleep.

Assuming, of course, the squirrels would allow it.

Speaking of moving things, earlier that day, we had discovered that when you're on a farm, wheelbarrows are not just for soil and plants. They're also perfectly acceptable tools for moving beds. Why carry furniture when you can wheel it around like building materials?

Just as we finally settled into bed, the squirrels launched their night shift. Judging by the noise on the roof, we can only assume they were either hosting a dance competition, moving their own furniture, or celebrating our arrival with a party we were notinvited to.

As we lay awake listening to the squirrel Olympics overhead, surrounded by unscrewed light bulbs, blocked sinks, a silent pool pump and the lingering possibility of gecko reinforcements, we realised something important.

This wasn't a disaster.

This was the beginning.

By sunrise, we'd survived statues, squirrels, geckos, blocked sinks, a rebellious pool pump and a lighting system designed by a puzzle master. We were exhausted, slightly traumatised and wondering what we'd gotten ourselves into.

But as we looked out over the farm that morning, we knew one thing for certain:

This adventure was going to be anything but boring.

We arrived thinking we were moving onto a farm. The farm clearly thought otherwise and spent the first night introducing itself.

The Wilsons xx