HORSE: three disasters in the saddle and a telling off

HORSES have been a central feature of the British countryside since records began with our distant ancestors quickly learning how to domesticate them.

Today's biggest breed, the Shire horse, was originally developed to carry armoured knights into battle during the 13th century and can weigh up to a tonne.

From the 18th century onwards this powerful creature even replaced the ox as our main cart-pulling beast, hence its old English name: 'cart horse'.

A typical Shire horse stallion stands a lofty 17 hands high with a single 'hand' being 10cms and the measurement taken from its shoulder or withers.

In addition, a Shire horse's fetlocks are always 'feathered' with long hairs spreading around the hooves.

These days, the Shire horse is more likely to be found in the show ring than the farm yard but some are still used by breweries to pull drays loaded with beer.

Slightly shorter than the Shire at 16 hands but reputedly even stronger is the Suffolk Punch, another massive breed designed to drag enormous loads.

Unlike the Shire, which is usually a mixture of brown, black and white, the Suffolk Punch is always bright chestnut in colour.

Another difference involves its fetlocks which are smooth and not 'feathered' like those of the Shire or other heavy breeds such as the Clydesdale.

I remember seeing a Suffolk Punch at a country show as a child and was stunned by its awesome physique.

I was equally shocked to learn recently that only 200 of these marvellous animals now survive worldwide, making them even rarer than the giant panda.

Thankfully, a campaign has been launched to save them from extinction. Horses for riding are based on a vast range of breeds, anything from the tall, Yorkshire-bred Cleveland Bay horse to the shorter Shetland or Exmoor ponies.

Riding is great if you're any good at it.

Unfortunately, I'm not, although I've pony-trekked in the Lake District, galloped down Moroccan beaches, and trotted through the Welsh hills.

All three experiences were pretty disastrous.

In the Lake District I was aged about nine and dragooned into taking part with my family.

My mount - a headstrong black Dales pony - kept turning round and sloping off back to its stable.

One of our guides had to constantly chase after us.

In Morocco, I hurtled scarily fast down various beaches trying to keep up with my then girlfriend, an expert rider who fell in love with our two mangy, flea-bitten Arab mares.

The country was baking in a heatwave at the time, though I was too terrified of falling off to care.

Under the blazing sun, I eventually noticed an odd tickling sensation on my bare shoulder.

When I glanced down, the skin had actually started to bubble.

Yet only later did I feel the full, excruciating effects of sunstroke....helpfully twinned with food poisoning.

The last time I rode a horse was years later in Wales.

Saddling up on two Welsh cobs, myself and a friend were waved off from the courtyard of the picturesque stables by the charming lady owner. Immediately my horse began to walk, I was embarrassingly unseated. However, I somehow managed to grab my mount's right ear to stop myself hitting the ground.

I hung there, awkwardly suspended, for a few long seconds before the stable owner levered me back into the saddle.

She was fine about it.

The horse wasn't.

It shook its painfully yanked ear and neighed at me in disgust.