Love is ...

If I had the Grey Mare's ability to attract the opposite sex I would not be sitting gathering dust on my spinster's shelf. Everywhere she goes, she inspires devotion. The latest horse to fall under her spell is one of my sister's thoroughbreds - the dark prince who was once entered (but didn't run) in the Derby. Following her recuperation alone in a little paddock adjoining the dark prince's field, she has now joined the big boys in there.

I watched her entry back into society with some trepidation; I am an incredible worrier when it comes to her welfare. She stood for a while staring at the other horses down the field then began trotting towards them. The dark prince cantered up and met her half way, then brought her to join the group. With minimal fuss, she was welcomed into the herd. The following day, I received a text from my sister after she'd turned the dark prince out. "It's pathetic," she said, "he's totally in love with her."

Two days later, her other boyfriend who had been on box rest due to lameness was allowed out for the first time in three months. He is now inhabiting the little paddock where the Grey Mare had been. They kissed over the fence and that night, when she went back inside, he spent hours shouting for her.

"I think she's even more of a mummy's girl since she's been staying in," said my friend (until she was ill, the Grey Mare lived outside 24-7). The Grey Mare put her head on my shoulder and cuddled in. She knows I always have carrots in my pocket.

The boys of summer

The Boys’ Brigade has arrived. Each year, the appearance of rows of old-fashioned green and white tents and the accompanying larger communal marquees encamped in a field along the coast road seems to sound the starting gun for summer. The boys are different every year but the pattern of their two-week visit doesn’t change: football on the school field, marching with trumpets and drums down the main street on Sunday, and gaggles of teenage girls tracking their movements in the hope of bagging themselves a Scottish summer love.

That’s one of the beauties of growing up in a coastal village that gathers more that its fair share of tourists: the boys of summer. Girls, eagerly awaiting the fresh talent that will arrive in holiday cottages and bed and breakfasts, head off to summer jobs in cafes and shops beneath extra coats of mascara and lip-gloss. Some blush when they have to serve the object of their desire, others flirt brazenly. Later, they meet up in the amusement arcades, then walk hand-in-hand along the beach.

I never had a fancy for a Boys’ Brigader but I shared the anticipation of romance as the school year died and the six-week holiday beckoned. It is more than half a lifetime ago, but one fortnight-long affair remains vivid. I wore pink eyeshadow and a yellow Frankie Says Relax T-shirt. He cut a deep hole into the arm of a wooden bench with a penknife while he waited for me one evening. For years, I would remember him and smile when I walked by that seat. He wrote me a ‘I really do like you’ note on a postcard and passed it surreptitiously across the counter of the shop where I worked. When he returned home to Kent, we wrote and he would ring each fortnight on a Friday. My mum thought he was “nice”.

But when you’re 15 and mobile phones haven’t been invented, distances are insurmountable and affairs fizzle out; boys at school suddenly start to grow up and become more interesting. Summer loves are packed into memory boxes, to be taken out occasionally and smiled over, like sepia photographs. Wistfully, you wonder where they are now….

A tale of the grey mare

The grey mare and I have just celebrated our fifth anniversary together. As far as relationships go, I think it’s very satisfactory: she carries me on her back, and I feed, worship and adore her.

Prior to the grey mare, I had acquired my horses: she is the first one I paid for. Hunting for a horse can be a harrowing business. I saw four unsuitable candidates before we met. Each time, I expected to meet my partner; each time my hopes were dashed. But I was smitten with her immediately. She was a bigger, prettier version of my last pony. My sister says: “I knew as soon as you saw her head over the stable door.”

I wasn’t disappointed: I started trying to barter while I was still on her back. The dealer refused to budge, but he did give me back £20 ‘luck money’ when I paid for her.

She arrived without a name, without travelling gear and with a horrible rope halter. Standing at the top of the lorry ramp, she whinnied loudly to find out whether there were any other horses in this strange place, then tail held high, she marched down confidently.

She had a slight cough when I tried her. Within a day, this had magnified and there was thick green mucous pouring down her nose. This was ‘the Irish cough’, a problem commonly caused when horses are transported across to England. For a week, she had penicillin injections.

For a week, too, she listlessly wandered along the line of the fence, looking sorry for herself and being ignored by the rest of the horses. I fretted that she’d never settle. At the end of the first week, evidently feeling healthier in her body, she jumped the fence into the next field where the company was obviously more conducive to conversation.

We brought her back, and gradually she secured her place in the herd. Now, it’s hard to remember what life was like without her.

A purpose in life

We all have a purpose in life, and three years shy of my two score, I have realised mine: it is to serve the grey mare.

Owning a horse is not for the fainthearted or irresponsible, it requires full-on commitment. Feeding, grooming, riding, problem solving and heartache are all part of the package, in fair weather and foul. People say to me when horizontal rain is being chucked down by an angry weather god: “Do you have to go and feed your horse when it’s like this?” I usually think: “Do you have to cook dinner for your children? You could always let them starve for the night.” But I say nothing and smile beatifically.

I once saw a T-shirt that said: “Poverty is owning a horse”. It’s true – the little superfluous cash I have is usually spent on things she needs. She currently has six rugs – she had more, but I forced myself to sell the ones we didn’t use. However, I am eyeing up another two. She has two bridles – one with day-to-day brakes and one with the ABS version for hunting, jumping and other exciting things. Her saddle cost more than one of my sister’s horses did. She has an array of shampoos and conditioners; she has baby wipes to clean her nose; she has two different supplements in her dinner. I could go on …

It isn’t just money and time she wants either. She has me utterly attuned to her every whim. If she has an itchy bit, she points at it with her nose and expects me to scratch it. Often, she will position herself in front of me and refuse to let me leave until I have scratched her belly. It’s a two-way street though – she does return the favour by mutually grooming me back.

Tonight, I was going riding with a friend who had offered to bring the mare in for me while I was at work. But the grey girl refused to be caught. “She trotted off wiggling her bum,” said my friend. When I went to the field and called, she came cantering over and nuzzled me for carrots. I know I’m her meal ticket, but I reckon she does love me…

A fickle female

My grey mare is the most wonderful horse in the world. She has eyes like melted dark chocolate, a velvety muzzle, and in the summer, dapples are scattered across her bottom like the splodges on an Ayres rocking horse.

She (usually) canters over when I call; she rests her head on my shoulder and blows in my ear, while expecting nothing in return but her dinner. She is my passion in life.

I am not alone in that opinion. The little minx has not one, but two, boyfriends. You can’t blame them for being besotted with her. I imagine she’s the equine equivalent of Marilyn Monroe with her Bambi-eyed gazes and voluptuous figure.

Boyfriend No.1 is a charmer, a long-legged bay former point-to-pointer. I always thought it was a proper love thing going on between them.

Boyfriend No.2 is also bay and although not the tallest horse in the world, he's quite possibly the biggest in Northumberland. Standing 18.2hh, he’s built like the proverbial brick outhouse. I consider the grey girl’s relationship with him to be political, as he’s a great Lord Protector and doesn’t let anyone chase her away from the hay in the field.

The first chap has been on box-rest because he had a poisoned foot. He gets pretty stressed when he’s kept inside, so imagine his delight when madam came in for her tea. He whickered repeatedly with a rhythm like a road drill, sounding like one of those overly vocal actor-horses on Rough Diamond. It’s funny how horses in dramas seem to spend all their time whinnying. I mean, have you heard the horses shouting away at each other on Black Beauty?

“Look,” I said, “there’s your boy.” Madam gave him a cursory sniff, turned to me as if to say: “Where’s my tea?” then proceeded to ignore him. I don’t know what he’d said to upset her. She was rather off with him the next couple of times she came in too, even though he shouted piteously in a Rough Diamond-esque fashion when I took her back to the field.

Today he was well enough to be turned out. After being inside for nearly a week he was on his toes and, ignoring the rest of the herd, he tit-upped over to my mare. They arched their necks, sniffed, leapt and bucked, then went off for a hoolie around the field together. Love, eh?