When I was young I had a budgie, pretty much the only living breathing thing you could call a pet as the goldfish came and went with alarming regularity. I do remember one that swam on its side. I don't think it was very well.

My little yellow and green bird never learned to fulfil his potential with his voice, never managing to mimic human sounds, but I swear to this day that when you returned his filled seed tray the two note trill he gave was tantamount to 'thank you', having heard us lot say it to each other all the time. Things went a bit fallow on the pet front for a good fifteen years until the word pet took on a whole new meaning. It was big (about 12.2 hands), black and very shaggy.

I had never even heard of Fell Ponies until I moved to the village, Dartmoor ones and Exmoor ones, yes, even Welsh, but not 'Fell'. The owner of this curious and stubborn beast is my bloke's dad. I, in my 'fresh from the town' eagerness, declared that I would take it out, ride it, groom it, feed it, pay for its shoes, get well acquainted with it and it would love me and do my bidding unconditionally in return. I wish I had my budgie back.

My cute budgie would sit on my hand and only occasionally nip me, which at age ten, I thought to be a sign of affection. Bonny Lass (ha!) on the other hand, only last month nearly took off two of my fingers, bless her. Joey the budgie would sit patiently on his perch above the scrap newspaper while I changed the sand sheet from the bottom of his cage, a simple task made easier by a compliant pet. Bonny, however, oh dear; I could spend half an hour brushing, combing, picking hooves, grooming to a shine only for her to wander away afterwards shaking like an overgrown dog looking for the best patch of damp field to roll in. At age 26 I was faring no better in understanding the animal kingdom, so much for trying to fit in with the locals, with their lithe little horses in the 'handy hunter' classes in the summer village shows. Every time I entered the field gate with a growing sense of dread I would be greeted by a lumbering beast whose idea of manners was to stick her nose in my pocket looking for polos before I was acknowledged.

I have, in my desperation, taken lessons, ridden out in company, bought a load of new kit (some of which didn't fit), tried being stern with her, tried to go with the flow when she fancied a gallop through an empty field (only to be unceremoniously dumped at the start), training aids and the advice of anyone in the pub. It got to the point where selling her seemed like the best option and blokey's dad nodded in agreement, fancying a new horse himself.

But one day, towards the end of winter when the days started to get longer and drier I felt the urge to trot out round the village returning. I walked up to the field head collar in hand and was met by a damp, muddy, shoeless little black pony, who eagerly trotted to my position and stuck her nose in my neck.

I'm a townie, born and bred, sentimental towards animals no matter how resolute I try to be about parting with them, the sensible 'cash-for-you-problems-solved' option. The big brown eyes asked me, 'are we going out for a ride then or what?', and I thought, maybe this year I'll learn how to drive the carriage instead and give the shaggy little beast another try.

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