Horse riding was the one childhood pass-time that I was actually good at. I wasn’t big into the  whole pony club, jolly gymkhana scene, but I could pull off a few dressage moves (think horse doing ballet) and clear fences at least three feet off the ground. For most of my early teens, Saturdays meant hours of horsing around at the farm. I loved it – even the bits that involved clearing up copious amounts of crap. I even had a horse on loan. Her name was Molly, a stubborn, bad tempered old mare that rejected pretty much any rider who attempted to climb aboard. I’m not sure what it says about my character  but we had a natural affinity. I’d slip her half a pack of polo mints and she’d comply with my requests to not bolt, buck or bite.

Then the day came for Molly to trot off to the great livery yard in the sky (where she is no doubt still terrorising Shetland ponies). By that point I’d already discovered new distractions such as boys,  shopping and the Boots make-up counter. My Saddle Club books had been replaced by Sweet Valley High and the subscription to Horse and Pony magazine swapped for Bliss. It wasn’t long until I’d hung up my riding hat for good.

In the years since, I have often found myself staring enviously at riders as they trot along country lanes. I still grimace every time someone describes a horse as ‘white’ (any true horsey type knows the correct term is ‘grey’) and swoon at the sight of a pretty palomino. 

So it is fair to say that I was more than a little excited when I arrived for my first riding lesson yesterday afternoon.

The first blast of nostalgia came with the smell -  an oddly intoxicating mix of horse muck, leather, sugar beet and straw. Then came the sounds -  hooves clip-clopping across the yard, whinnies, neighs  and snorts, a satisfied snuffle and a crunch as a carrot was hoovered from a little girls palm. I was back.

My lesson was taken by a friendly young guy who had a rather disconcerting limp, which he later explained was the result of a brutal trampling under hoof the day before. He introduced me to Flow, who was to be my stead for the day. 

‘She’ll probably take the mick a bit, but show her who’s boss,’ was his opening piece of advice. My face must have given my worries away as this was quickly followed by ‘She won’t bolt or anything, just walk off in the wrong direction.’

Relieved by this, I gave her a quick once over, she didn’t look too dangerous, there was no blatant malice in her big dark eyes. 

I clambered aboard and instantly felt at home. ‘Heels down, toes up’ was the mantra repeating in my brain. I gave Flow a nudge and we were off. 

Over the next 30 minutes my legs received the kind of workout they’d not encountered since my short lived Pilates fad. As I sit writing this, some 36 hours later, my thighs groan at every slight movement and my backside feels as though I’ve just completed 1000 buttock-toning clenches. 

Flow had tried her best to spend the lesson aimlessly plodding around in circles but my lower legs ensured that she didn’t get her way. We walked, trotted, turned left, turned right, clockwise, anti-clockwise… Poor Flow was knackered (perhaps not the best word used in this context) and a tad dizzy by the end of it. So was I. 

My confidence soared as I found myself correcting Flow’s attempts to amble across the middle of the arena or slow down to glacial pace.

‘It’s all about psychology, you’re in control and decide where you go and what you do,’ was my instructors advice. Strange how that piece of advice could easily apply to life itself. 

Half an hour passed in what felt like five minutes and all too soon I was dismounting and ruffling Flow’s mane. I felt terrible as she gave me gentle head butt designed to say ‘Oi! Show me the carrot!’ only to find no tasty treat on offer. 

After my lesson I headed straight to book my next two. The horsey bug had bitten again.

My legs may still be killing and I may well have smelt like a dung heap but it was all worth it. The feeling of doing something with no particular aim in mind other than enjoyment was rather liberating. Turning out to be half decent at it in the process was a bonus. 

Note to Flow: I.O.U two carrots