Horses are without question the absolute bane of my life. So why bother with them? Because they’re also my centre, my pulse, my very life-blood.

When I head for the stable and hear that soft deep whicker my horse seems to reserve for me and me alone, and when I lay my cheek against the silken skin of his neck and breathe in that glorious horse smell that’s when I’m most aware of heaven.

When we meander together along quiet roads, or across the local marsh, going nowhere in particular, and in no hurry to get there, that’s when I know peace

When I murmur his name and his ears twitch back to listen to me, when he responds to my wishes before I’ve even let him know what they are, when we move in smooth collected harmony towards a jump, and leap it cleanly as one united creature, that’s when I know what perfection is.

And when, on occasion, we are called at shows to join the line of rosette-winners and to ride the victory parade around the arena, hearing the whistles and applause of friends, that’s as close as I’ll ever need to get to pure joy.

It’s not something that can be readily explained - maybe even a lifetime of explanations wouldn’t come close, because either a person’s been bitten by the bug, or they haven’t. Those that have, know that all the frustrations and irritations don’t really amount to a hill of beans because nothing, absolutely nothing else can come close to what you can have with your horse. It’s spiritual, it’s sensual, it’s everything you could ever want it to be - and it’s also everything you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy.

If you understand what I’m talking about, then you have my profound and lasting sympathies, because you’ve obviously been bitten too. If you haven’t the faintest notion what I’m on about, then rejoice, and run while you still can. But don’t expect me to join you. Not unless my horse can come too that is.