1980. Higher House Farm, Mottram-St-Andrew, Alderley Edge, Cheshire. During the summer, or when Dad moaned about his car never being available, I would cycle the seven miles or so to Dawson’s and ride for two-and-a-half hours, before cycling home again. This was never a hardship. I’d set off around 7.30 in the morning, beating the heavy traffic (or what we used to perceive as the rush-hour) around the suburbs, before arriving on the outskirts of Mottram-St-Andrew. This wouldn’t be a pleasant experience now, but in the seventies and early eighties, these country lanes were mostly empty. I’d be leaving the yard by 9am and trotting up towards The Edge. Grey Filly, a favourite, may have been one of Mary’s failed racehorses. Her strides were long and powerful, as one might expect but she never gave me cause for concern, even when we cantered along the flat stretches around the sand hills and up through Windmill Woods, or across the top of The Edge, where she could easily have got the better of me. Although I enjoyed all the early Dick Francis novels, I never cared for horse-racing or even anything mildly competitive. I tended to shy away from gymkhanas as a child and become bored and restless if I have to ride in an indoor school for longer than half an hour. I much preferred – still do – to spend all day happily bumbling round the countryside. I liked to think Grey Filly agreed with me.
