GOING on patrol to the remote Bosnian villages requires excellent driving skills and, more importantly, a robust liver.

The picturesque hamlets are dotted along rocky, single-track lanes which meander precariously across the countryside.

And, when you've managed to get there, the Bosnians can be most hospitable. The sight of a Landrover bearing SFOR troops often prompts a symphony of clinking of glasses.

The soldiers on patrol are there to reassure local people, gather

intelligence and generally show that the international community has a presence in the area.

They chat with the villagers through an interpreter, fill in

questionnaires and hand out copies of Mostovi, an army produced magazine packed full of news and features.

It's a task the infantrymen of the KORBR have mixed feelings about. It gets them out of the base, they get to see the country and meet the people but market research and newspaper delivery is not exactly what they signed up for.

And then there's the slivodevic!

Pronounced "Sleeps in a ditch," it's a hair-raisingly strong, home-made plum brandy which eager villagers insist you drink.

And it's very difficult to say no.

You can't sip it, the fumes alone make your eyes water, so it's best downed in one.

And, if you manage to drink one glass, you can be sure another shot will be on its way. A corporal who was a patrol veteran warned: "Be careful with this stuff, you'll end up plastered!"

It was another scorching afternoon when I jumped aboard a Landrover on patrol with three members of the Kings Own and a Serbian interpreter called Zoran, who spoke excellent English.

"I watch a lot of Star Trek," he informed me.

We headed for the hills, took a couple of wrong turnings, but eventually came across a few houses with haystacks, vegetable gardens and obvious signs of life.

The soldiers slipped on their berets and, wearing big smiles, we approached an elderly couple who were enjoying a quiet afternoon on the verandah.

Hospitalities commenced.

Out came the plum brandy and we couldn't say no. Via Zoran he told us this was his brothers house, his property had been bombed and was still derelict. He said it was very quiet in the village now. Locally only four families had moved back and the nearby school, which once had 250 pupils, now taught just seven children.

"Only the elderly are left," he explained, "the young people have made new lives in the city.

"Country life is not for them."

These pensioners had taken over a spacious property with a breathtaking view - the equivalent back in Britain would set you back up to £250,000. Yet houses like this were scattered across the valley, discarded and unused. Further up the road another hamlet resembled an impressionist painting with a peasant women feeding chickens among the ramshackle farm buildings. Here a man in his 50s looked after three elderly relatives and, although life was obviously hard, out came the plum brandy.

He bemoaned the lack of aid - they'd had nothing. Three of his relatives had been shot dead during the war but he was proud that his parents had survived and now he could look after them. The corporal filled in questionnaires, gave them magazines and reassured them that he would pass on their comments. After fond farewells, we staggered back to the Land Rover. I wondered about the accuracy of the intelligence we had gathered, which would be compiled in a report. Armed with gallons of plumb brandy, the Serbs also knew a thing or two about psychological operations.