Teddy Bourke and his family own the village of Chettle, which borders the Rushmore estate in Cranborne. It was in stunned amazement that Rose and I traipsed up through the woods on the outskirts of the village one Saturday afternoon to look at Keeper’s Lodge. In a clearing stood a colonial-style bungalow, a former gamekeeper’s cottage built from brick and flint more than 150 years ago, nestling on the boundary of an ancient woodland. To say it was both beautiful and tranquil would be to misrepresent it. Keeper’s Lodge is unique. On our first viewing, as we opened the back door a herd of sheep ran out of the front. The grass around the house was knee-high, birdsong, like some distant melody, butterflies fluttered in the sunlight.
The house was gas-lit and was little more than a scruffy oasis in the midst of an overgrown wilderness. But it was perfect. There was – and still is – no rubbish collection, no postal delivery, no proper road and very few services. In the village there was a stable full of horses, and in August 1993 we took on the lease. We have been there ever since.
The children have had the benefit of growing up both in London and in a wild place with woods and birds and cows and farm animals and a small shoot that I run. Except for the supply of electricity, which we now have (don’t let anyone try to convince you that gas lighting is romantic: it isn’t) and an unkempt garden, not much has changed in the seventeen years we have been here. Friends in the village have married, given birth and died. People have come and gone but all around Chettle is an untouched idyll. Together we have shot the deer that roam in the woods, the pheasants that sit in the hedgerows and the partridge that squat in the barley fields.
Kevin and Rose Hicks have been in Chettle as long as we have and live for horses and little else. When we visited, the stables held a mix of big, hefty hunters, ex-racehorses and a small Shetland pony called Mandy. Aged five, Lara used to go down to the Hicks’s yard in the village to groom her. Just as I had done as a child, she would lovingly scrub all the mud off her, sponge out her eyes and ears and pick out her feet. Then we’d tack her up with her saddle and bridle and off we’d go for a stroll round the village.
It was to Chettle that I retreated for the winter half-term in February to get the first taste of what it would be like to get back on a horse. Apart from the occasional slip, when I gave in to the temptation of a groaning dinner table, I had managed to stick resolutely to the diet despite the shaking of a few heads of those who still could not believe what I had got myself into. I had lost just over half a stone, and was lighter now than I had been for ten years. The circuits around the park that were getting faster had given me enough confidence to think that I was making the necessary progress to pull this off. All I had to do now was get on a horse and be able to stay on it through a walk, a trot, then later a canter and a gallop.
For every rider, being on a horse is all about the gallop. It is instant gratification. It is also daring, exciting, exhilarating and dangerous, very like the way most riders like to live their lives. I don’t think an accountant has ever galloped; neither has a man who digs the road for a living. But the journalist who has just landed the big story is at it full pelt. Footballers gallop, the ones playing on a Sunday at the local rec and the ones playing in a cup final at Wembley. They gallop. It’s daring and emotional, and it is also draining. I knew that if I could learn how to gallop on a horse again then I would be some way towards getting myself out of this midlife crisis slump. Some men in the same position leave their families and disappear with young girls; others buy yachts. I have no inclination to do either.
The first port of call on arriving at Chettle, already dreaming of putting on my racing silks, was to Kevin and Rose. They were aware of my little adventure, but I was unsure how to broach the subject. You don’t just lend a horse to a 15-stone man and wave him off down the lane.
Ever since I’ve known Kevin and Rose I’ve assumed that all Rose’s horses are either deaf or impervious to her screaming and hollering: ‘Get up, you fucking bastard, or I’ll have you’ is typical of the sort of riposte she often makes to an equine miscreant. Not only that, Rose also likes to ensure that anyone within half a mile can hear her telling her horses off. They do, because you can’t help but hear her when she hollers. For a woman, her expletives are quite extraordinary. I start telling Rose about the idea of my race and I can see she is quite impressed. I have yet to find a trainer, but she offers me her own retired racehorse, Edward, to exercise. ‘He’ll carry you, even at fifteen stone,’ she says.
On the face of it this is a great idea as Edward is in the village and I can ride every time I’m here. I say ‘on the face of it’ because it is only later that Rose tells me, ‘Edward bucks a bit, oh, and he can be a bit strong. But don’t worry, you’ll be all right.’ ‘A bit strong’ means that I won’t be able to stop him until he has galloped all the way to our nearest town, Blandford Forum. ‘Bucks a bit’ means that he upends himself onto his forelegs, puts his nose between his legs and tries like hell to get rid of his rider.
I decided not to take up Rose’s kind offer, at least for the moment. When I got home I enquired at the local riding stable about the possibilities of riding one of their horses. I was cut short before I had a chance to deliver my full pitch about fulfilling a childhood dream, and was told in no uncertain terms that I was not going anywhere near their stables. This was a riding school, not a circus, I was told. I put the phone down, wondering where to turn to next.
I opted to take up Rose’s offer after all. So, most mornings we rode out. Edward was fine; he didn’t buck, he moved forward fluently. We had a great time in the early mornings, slow, long canters, pheasants shooting out of the hedgerows. Walks and trots and talking all the time about riding and racing and Rose side-eyeing me as if to say, ‘You really are mad, you are.’
On the first Sunday of our stay, after walking Billy we were invited to Cranborne for lunch by some old friends, the Campbells, who lived in a house almost as charmingly dishevelled as our own. The drink flowed and the food, piled high, was brought to the table. I made a vague gesture of waving away a second helping before giving in, thinking that as soon as I got on a horse I’d be able to burn off the excess calories twice as quickly. We feasted on rare roast lamb, crisp, succulent and bloody, potatoes, spoonfuls of cheese and great hunks of bread. Dessert was a crumble with cream; there were flagons of wine. By the end of the afternoon I could feel myself bulging out of my shirt once again, like a character from a Thomas Hardy novel.
Bloated and content, I waited for the appropriate moment before telling the assembled company about my endeavour.
‘I need to ride a horse, every day’, I said.
It was a sort of ‘my kingdom for a horse’ moment when George told me that I could exercise her horse, Daz, which was stabled at her brother’s house in Cranborne, a ten-minute drive from Chettle. Perfect.
George Campbell has no fear of anything, least of all riding horses, and she loves to get her friends involved in her equine exploits. She once pleaded with me to allow her to take Lara out hunting. Envious of her fearlessness I almost agreed, thinking it would be a great thing for a pony-mad girl to do. It would be the ideal opportunity for her to experience the rush of adrenalin and fear that I hoped she would come to love.
George’s husband, Mouse, however, had other ideas. He kicked me sharply under the table and mouthed silently, ‘Do you not know we are in the presence of a mad lady here? Under no circumstances should you put her in charge of your only daughter on the hunting field. Do not do it.’ There are quite a lot of people in Dorset who agree with Mouse. And, as I was to find out later, when George is on a horse she knows only two paces – walk and flat-out gallop. She has suffered innumerable broken bones and bumps to the head but when I ask her if she ever feels nervous she says, with a huge, haunting grin sweeping across her face: ‘If it’s meant to be it’s meant to be.’ And, of course, she has a point.
By early March, two months after I started the diet, I had already lost three-quarters of a stone and was feeling much better for it. It was a moment of truth as Jack and I drove to Cranborne to meet Daz. She was a sweetie. Horses are measured in hands,