The other day, I went down to the far end of my mare’s field — a place only ventured to by thick tyres or four sturdy legs — and promptly lost a welly boot six feet under, never to be seen again. In the twenty minutes it took me to somehow squelch my way back up to the gate and back to safety, the mares galloped past me gleefully approximately thirteen times, apparently totally indifferent to my plight. Horses, eh? Winter, eh? Anyway, when EN’s editor, Sally, sent me tonight’s video — from the comfort of her WARM AND DRY California home, no less (well, actually, maybe not, all things considered) — I was initially wholly repelled by the concept of galloping through flooded fields. But then I rewatched it again, and realised that being atop a sturdy Irish horse would mean no wet feet, and no sequestered welly boots, I started to warm to the idea. This is just about the only situation in which I can see the fun in flooding, now, but only if there’s plenty of hot toddies on offer to make it worthwhile.
