Have a problem with a piece of local folklore.
Truffles are a much prized delicacy and grow here in The South of France among the roots of certain oak trees.
To hunt truffles you need a licence, (even good sized truffle will sell for more than a thousand euros!) a pig, or a dog.
However, with a knowing wink a local confided, in fact you need none of these.
You find a suitable oak tree, sit quietly, and wait for a fly to pass. If the fly hovers near the oak, a quick dig will reveal a truffle below where the fly hovered.
So I sat quitely beneath the suitable oak for ten minutes before the truth dawned.
Truffles are harvested in December. December is winter here – so where are the bloody flies? Answer, asleep until next spring.
There can ony be two answers to this puzzle.
A. I have to wait until next spring for a fly by which time the wild hogs around here will have eaten all the truffles, or they will have rotted away.
B. The local is taking the piss.