Have I met my riding friends?

The sound of the little cart on the lane came first and then the sight of the pony clip-clopping towards our gate.

An old woman, as old as the hills, was sitting atop the cart jiggling the reins as she jogged the pony expertly down the road.

We waved her down to say hello, because we are always so delighted to see people with horses that we often run out to talk to them. On this occasion, as the weather-beaten old woman in scruffy clothes pulled the pony to a stop, we could also see an old man sitting, or rather lying beside her, all wrapped up.

He was stretched out oddly, with one arm stuck out at an angle, and appeared to be strapped in with baling twine. His eyes were closed. He was clearly asleep. Bless them, we thought.

The builder boyfriend had spoken to this old woman before, and he chatted to her about how well her pony was going, and how nice a day it was for a jog, and she said ‘It is, boy!’ in her thick west Cork accent. The man, meanwhile, lay completely inert. He did not stir.

A small dog was yapping from its place in a makeshift crate behind the old couple and to us, newcomers to this Irish landscape where everything is frozen in another time, the whole scene was a rural idyll.

Added to which, to meet horse people is a treat because we are in cattle farming country. Many times I have run out of the gates to greet people driving pony and traps, or riders, because there aren’t that many. Mainly people have trotters, and there are cart races on the roads sometimes.