...that 'hooves on concrete' sound ...

Those long mornings spent at Highfield Farm house were what childhood dreams are made of. There was an abundance of labradors and spaniels to ride on and most of the time a litter of gundog pups to let lick my biscuit crumbed face. I helped my mother make beds, polish silver and my favourite job of all; arranging the toys in the most bountiful playroom you could ever set eyes on. A baby grand piano filled one corner, soft bean bag chairs and an enormous dolls house in another, all laid out on the polished parquet floor in true regal farmhouse chic. Out of the huge beautifully dressed windows, the dogs scampered across the courtyard chasing leaves and each other, yapping gleefully - everyone’s life seemed perfect in this magical wonderland.

Just out of sight from my window was a stable yard full of fit athletic hunt horses that glistened in the fields and left that 'hooves on concrete' sound resounding through the house and my head alike. I knew it excited me from the youngest age. I followed the scent of hot saddle cloths and sweat caked bridles, through the hallways down to the tackroom and, eyes widened, felt most at home in this tiny room of the house. The smell of wax barbours, gun powder and leather saddles - nothing, to this day, makes me feel more at ease than that damp, musty scent. The only thing in my reach was a stuffed full cupboard housing sponges, boot cleaning equipment and the odds and end of high society field sports. A box labelled 'bits' was my salvation, it was heavy and exciting. I appreciated all of the different shapes, rollers, hooks and smooth metals and rubbers of each one. I would line them up in size and type, with the taste of Brasso in my mouth from sampling the 'feel'. Having to put them all back made my heart sink; home time already, it couldn't be.