On my way to do the morning mare checks on Sunday, I was interrupted by a pile of horse droppings on the road. Anyone with breeding stock never wants to see horse droppings there – where have they escaped from? A mile down the road, another little pile of evidence. I head to the yard and spend a gorgeous couple of hours checking udders, mucking out and feeding the girls in the maternity barn.

I’m sort of superstitious; it doesn’t rule my life but there are things I do to make myself feel a little more confident. For example, putting a holy card in the foaling stables has become one of them. I’m a bit behind with the stable blessings this year, so I stopped at our local religious paraphernalia, stationery and newsagent all-in-one shop, to pick up a St Francis and a St Jude. Alas, all out of St Francis – St Anthony of Padua it is. He is the patron saint of lost souls, I’m sure in some greater philosophical way, that’ll cover it, I think to myself.

Mental checklist

I was deep in plotting my breakfast when half a mile from home, there he was. A pony, misty grey and looking well and truly far from home. The mental checklist happens way before you approach a loose equine – Injured? Stallion? Abandoned? Feet are shod, phew, he belongs to someone. He was sweet and gentle and knew humans well.

For me and the little pony, that meant avoiding the angry farmer who likes to shoot anything that dares look at his fields. I’m all for responsible country codes but this guy isn’t for negotiation

Of course, there’s 20 halters at the yard but not one in the van, just a length of rope. I re-enact the sleight of hand I saw an old horseman do once, and fashioned a halter. Next, we set about finding a secure spot, with thoughts of a distraught child howling into their porridge somewhere, crying for their beloved friend.

When you’ve lived somewhere 16 years, you get to know your neighbours. For me and the little pony, that meant avoiding the angry farmer who likes to shoot anything that dares look at his fields. I’m all for responsible country codes but this guy isn’t for negotiation.

As I’m pondering the field situation and my friend is grazing more verge, a rather serious looking runner approaches. I shout out already resigned to being ignored, “Do you know anyone missing a pony?”

“Aye, I saw it on the neighbourhood watch page this morning,” says he.

I was a bit stunned, but there it was, a name and where the pony lives, just like that.

“I’ll leave him in the wee garden up by the tiny bungalow at the cross roads,” says I.

“OK, I’ll message him when I get home,” replies the runner.

And with that, he gallops off and the pony and I pootle along to safety, thanking St Anthony all the way.