On average one hundred people a year are killed by elephants in Sri Lanka. Which is the kind of information that is usually merely a statistic for those of us who live in the British Isles, where all potentially dangerous animals were killed off a long time ago.

I’ve always found it hard to imagine what it must be like to have to tread carefully when going for a walk.

Only a week ago we were lucky enough to see wild elephants close up from the relative safety of a reinforced jeep, driven by a knowledgeable driver. Never-the-less, the two ladies in the back, who had grown up in the country, were visibly and audibly frightened when a bull among the group that were feeding only twenty metres away, began walking purposefully towards us. The driver quickly started the engine and moved to a safer distance.

At the time I hadn’t felt at all perturbed. But a couple of days later I met a man who had seen his uncle killed in the last year, while he watched helpless from only thirty metres way. They get in the mood apparently, especially when it’s very hot, and seem to attack for no other reason than that. The man I spoke to couldn’t do a thing, apart from aim a few futile stones, as the animal threw his uncle around and then crushed his head. Horrific.

It feels like I’ve lived a cosseted existence. Last night in a half asleep state my imagination was taking me into fatal encounters with elephants, and it wasn’t fun. Fortunately for me it was all taking place in my mind.

But I’ve developed a new respect, and a certain amount of cautionary fear, for a world of wildness which previously I had only experienced courtesy of David Attenborough.