I AM not a natural around horses, in fact it would be fair to say I am, ahem, scared.

However, since The Teen bought her first baby horse six months ago (he's already 15.3 with more growing to do, apparently) my learning curve has been on a steep incline. I have been known on occasion to bring the boy in and even changed his rug once - please keep in mind he's big, strong and grimaces at everyone except for The Teen and while she has been around horses since the tender age of four, I have not.

Fortunately Mars lives on a yard that can be likened to something from an Enid Blyton book - the handsome, well behaved, HOYS winning Forest stallions are the cutest and the owner is one of the most skilled and entertaining women I have ever met in my life. So being at the yard has become a joy, unless of course I have to get embroiled in horse care, which is infrequent given my sub standard skill set.

Oh, and then there are the visits from the Hay Man and Farrier.

Now because I live in a little world of my own, I had not noticed their virtues until a very married friend piped up: "Who is your hay man? He is gorgeous."

"Is he? I hadn't noticed..."

"Look at those rippling muscles and his smile, Bate, look at his smile."

"Wait until the farrier arrives," I laughed.

The following week, the grey van arrived at 7.30am (farriers, or so I am told, are notoriously late and mostly miserable however the Teen's are prompt and pleasant) complete with mobile forge, leather apron and his very special box of tools.

I watched my friend's eyes light up as she peered behind the stable door to catch a glimpse of the farrier, who was expertly handling The Teen's highly strung thoroughbred through a cloud of sizzling steam and earthy tradition.

I think she fainted or something because she disappeared for ten minutes, finally returning speechless.

"The farrier," I divulged later, "was voted number one in the Top Ten Fittest Farrier national competition."

And he was.