BECKY SHEAVES

Here at the farm, I was half a mile away from an actual Tarmac road. And that road offered nothing much by way of diversion, other than endless trees.

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T'S a good job you like horses,” my mother has observed several times over the years, mostly when life here at the farm has been more than usually exhausting and/or muddy.

This is no more than the truth. Marrying into a Devon farming family meant that for the very first time in my life I could a) own horses and b) (more importantly) keep them at home. I will never forget the thrill of first looking out of the kitchen door on to the farmyard and seeing my very own dear little mare gazing back at me from her stable. For any equine-obsessed little girl, this was wish-fulfilment in a big way. My childhood dreams had come true at last.

And this ability to have my very own equestrian setup on the doorstep, not sharing with anyone else, paying no livery fees and doing it all just as I wanted, certainly sweetened the, at times bitter, pill of farming life. Yes, I lived down a bumpy lane far from the nearest shop, café or pub. My nice shoes were instantly ruined, just by walking out of the back door to the car. My husband's idea of a fulfilling weekend was to spend it happily fencing in some pigs, with a little foot-trimming of sheep by way of a diversion. Mine, not so much.