I knew it was going to happen: I was going to fall off a 6ft-tall horse. This animal – 600kg of moving strength and power – was cantering with me at a gentle pace around the riding school. He had a glossy, conker-brown mane and long lashes framing his kind eyes, which would peer curiously at me.

I trusted him. I was 34 years old and this was my fourth day, and fourth time ever, riding a horse. I tried to feel courageous – this was the word my coach had used to describe me on our first meeting, and it had propelled me up onto the saddle. But then my foot slipped out of the stirrup, suddenly floating mid-air when it had previously felt so secure. Any control I thought I had was gone in a second. The horse sped up, and I could see that he was heading for the jumps – those white fences and hedges that professional jockeys seemed to glide over so effortlessly, but which I, even when I wasn’t struggling with balance, was just not ready for.

“Stop, please,” I pleaded with the horse. But he didn’t listen. He sped up… And then, boom. I was on the floor, curled into myself, all of my breath gone. I felt my ribs. Padding had protected my bones and, though I was bruised, the impact was not nearly as bad as I had imagined.

I heard my coach’s voice behind me. “Are you ready to get back on?” He brought the horse over and pulled me up with one hand. Steadily, he held me as I wedged my foot back into the stirrup, up and over, ready to begin once more.