One of the aspects of the Cambridge environment I particularly disliked, but quickly found myself colluding with, was the level of intellectual aggression. Undergraduates wanted to be seen to be clever, and this sometimes made them extraordinarily closed-minded and judgemental. Rather than listening to other points of view, they generally wanted to trash them, using the most obscure, esoteric language possible. I suppose it was partly because there were a lot of shocked, unnerved people; they were used to being the cleverest people in their school, and now all of a sudden 5 As at A level was nothing special.

But this intellectual ferocity was nothing compared to the deeply-held, never-to-be-challenged views of many in the world of horses. Over the course of the next few years, both Adam and I would come face to face with this resistance time and time again.

Not that the learning environment at West Oxfordshire College was perfect, either. There was scepticism from tutors on other courses, and right from the very start students were desperate to impress Monty with their skills and knowledge. This competitiveness was hardly conducive to learning.

I very nearly didn’t go on the course. Like so many others, I’d seen Monty on the first QED programme, and been amazed. But it didn’t seem like a possibility to meet him. In my mind, he became the equine world’s equivalent of David Bowie – an utter genius, well out of reach. Then I saw a small advert in one of the glossy horse magazines I bought from time to time: ‘Ten-week course on the techniques of Monty Roberts to be held at West Oxfordshire College, Witney’. I looked it up on the map – definitely within travelling distance, if I had a car.

‘I don’t know,’ I said to Adam, ‘I’d have to give up my job.’

He looked at me in astonishment. ‘Are you mad? You work as a cashier at a building society. Part time. This course is about horses! You’ll get another job.’

Then I spoke to my mum. ‘I know it’s great value for money’ (the course was just £750 for the entire ten weeks), ‘but it’s still quite a lot to find all at once.’

She looked at me oddly. ‘Oh, don’t worry about that, we can always lend you the money if you don’t have it to hand.’

‘But . . .’

‘No problem.’

I tried again.

‘Dad, I want to go on a ten-week course about the methods of that American chap we saw on TV, remember, the one who listens to horses. I’d have to give up my job, I don’t have the money to pay for it, and I’d have to somehow get hold of a car. What do you think?’

I knew he would say no. He hated anything that looked like a ‘scheme’. After all, there’s no money to be made from horses, and it’s not a good idea to change jobs too often. Looks bad on the CV. Besides, he would think it crazy to invest even such a reasonable amount of money in what essentially amounted to a hobby. The part of me that didn’t think I deserved to go on the course knew I could rely on my dad to back me up. Even more conveniently, I could blame him for holding me back.

‘Yeah, sounds great! Don’t worry about the money, I’m sure we could help out. I’ve been thinking about getting a second car anyway. You could take the black one. Witney, eh? Not far out of Oxford, I think, let me get the map . . .’

I was astonished. Resigned, I pointed out Witney to him.

I don’t know why I experienced this reluctance to go on the course. I do know that we often resist the things in life that would benefit us the most. Also, that the fear of success can be greater than the fear of failure. Whatever the reason, in the face of such overwhelming support from Adam and my parents, I could think of no convincing excuse. I had missed the deadline for the first course, but was in ample time for the second. I took greater care over the application form than I ever had for any job or university entrance, and waited anxiously. By now, all my hesitation had dissolved, and I was desperate to go. When the acceptance came through, I could barely contain my excitement. I couldn’t wait to get started. Since then I’ve met many people with similar stories. Sometimes it’s taken them several years to come on the courses. I fancy I can see the same look of slightly stunned disbelief and relief on their faces that I must have had when I found myself sitting in the classroom that first morning: they can’t understand why they nearly let such a fantastic opportunity slip through their fingers.

I arrived at the college and was shown into a large room. A few students were already there, and more kept arriving as we started to go through the inevitable administrative tasks. Kelly Marks, the course organiser, was there, being bright and friendly and efficient. I had thought that she simply did the administration for the courses, and that someone else did the actual teaching. She looked to me far too pretty and feminine to be any good with a horse. Little did I know just how much I would learn from her over the years, nor what a profound role model and friend she would turn out to be.

We had about half an hour to have a coffee and meet each other before Monty arrived. There were eighteen of us. The atmosphere was electric. I think we were probably all worried that we would say the wrong thing, create a bad first impression, and were anxious to establish allies straight away. Questions sparked around the room: ‘How many times have you read the book?’ ‘What do you think he’ll be like?’ ‘Have you seen a demonstration?’ ‘What sort of horses will there be on the course?’ ‘Will we have to show him what we can do today?’

Then all of a sudden he was there. We all sat down, Kelly introduced him, and he started talking.

‘I feel very humbled,’ he began, ‘to see you all here today. To have such young, bright, enthusiastic students on a course to learn my methods is a great honour.’

I looked around the room. Not everyone was under sixty, but Kelly later informed me that anyone under fifty-five is a kid to Monty.

As he continued, I felt a surge of happiness. I was in the right place, I was doing the right thing, I was going in the right direction. Ten weeks of self-indulgent learning stretched out ahead of me. For once, I was studying something that I really wanted to know about. But would I be any good at it?

Kelly then asked us to introduce ourselves, and say a little about our experience with horses and what we hoped to get out of the course. I was very impressed by the other students – it seemed they had all done much more exciting things than I had. I mentioned starting Sensi, and having my own small business. I’m sure Monty and Kelly gave me the same reassuring smiles they gave everyone, but I wouldn’t have known, staring as I was at my hands the whole time. Monty often laments the fact that the English don’t seem capable of looking people in the eye and giving a firm handshake. I’ve often felt like contesting this notion, but I can’t honestly say that anyone in the room that day actually met his gaze and spoke confidently to the room. It didn’t seem to occur to Monty that his presence might have been the cause of such shyness.

After lunch we went to the stables, and Monty worked with three horses, introducing the first two youngsters to their first saddle, bridle, and rider, and putting the first saddle and long-lines on a third. It was fascinating, and I got my first glimpse of his incredible energy. When the day was over, I reluctantly drove home, head buzzing, trying to imprint every last detail in my mind.

As I told Adam all about my day that evening, I was already feeling the first pangs of nostalgia. One day was over, the course wouldn’t last for ever, what was there afterwards? Would I ever have this sort of opportunity again?

After the morning lectures the next day, we headed out to the stud stables again. I had noticed that on the first afternoon Kelly had done something that struck me as curious: she had asked for volunteers to take her car to drive Monty to the stable yard. What she wanted was for people to get the chance to have an informal chat with Monty on the way over, to get to know him as an individual, and not be too much in awe of him. I was very dubious about this idea. Although I’d passed my driving test in a manual car by this time, I was used to driving an automatic. I could envisage the embarrassment of repeatedly stalling Kelly’s rather sporty car, grinding the gears, or perhaps even crashing it. I hid at the back when Kelly asked for volunteers, careful not to meet her eye. It didn’t strike me as a good omen, though – if I couldn’t bear to expose even my driving skills to scrutiny, what would I be like in the pen?

That afternoon, we worked on the horses again; the two that had been sat on briefly the day before, by an assistant tutor, were this time taken through the process by students. Monty called instruction from the outside of the pen, and the students concerned did an admirable job. I was one of several people who had leapt at the chance to ‘have a go’, but as I watched a fellow student become only the second ever person to sit on the first youngster, a three-year-old thoroughbred called Candide, I felt no sense of being left out. It was as fascinating to watch as it was to do, and I was sure we’d all have a chance. Walking back to the car park, however, I realised with some surprise that not everyone felt the same way. I could hear mutterings of ‘It’s not fair’ and ‘Why were those students chosen?’ I closed my ears to the negative words, but they were like pinpricks threatening to burst the balloon of my happiness.

On the third afternoon, I caught a glimpse of the frustration that can result from wanting to impress. One of the students, Janet, was working with Magic, one of the other youngsters, and she was doing a good job, following Monty’s instructions carefully, but not always moving at the right pace or in exactly the right direction. As it was Magic’s third time in the round pen, he was getting more familiar with the process, and was finding the student’s occasional small mistake somewhat confusing. Tension was creeping into Monty’s voice, and he was clearly worried about undoing the progress made in the first two sessions. To prevent any further confusion, he stepped into the pen, and took over that part of the join-up process. For those of us watching, it was immensely valuable – we could really see the difference in what Monty was doing. For Janet, though, it was a disappointing moment. She watched carefully as Monty demonstrated what he had been trying to explain, and then she took over for the rest of the session. I thought she’d coped with the situation brilliantly, and was very impressed with her resilience.

As it happened, she and I ended up driving back to the college in the same car with the student, Anna, who had worked on the horse the day before. Janet was giving herself a hard time over the mistakes she’d made. I tried to reassure her without offending Anna.

‘Well, from where I was sitting, it didn’t look as if you made any more mistakes than Anna did – sorry, Anna. It’s just that because it was the horse’s third time, it was even more critical not to confuse him. If you’d done the horse yesterday, and Anna had done him today, I’m sure the outcome would’ve been the same.’

Although Anna agreed wholeheartedly, we couldn’t shake Janet’s persistent feeling that she’d somehow failed. I could really identify with this feeling, particularly given my reticence to get behind the wheel of Kelly’s car, but it occurred to me in a sudden flash of insight, that the whole point of receiving help and guidance was to have your mistakes exposed. If you managed to conceal them, you would never get the information you needed to correct them. I was reminded of one of my most absurd Cambridge experiences: I was struggling with an exercise paper on Thermodynamics, and although the answers were printed on the back, it was taking me about four hours per question to arrive at the correct answer. And even when I’d finally contorted my calculations so that I came to the right conclusions, I was never able to remember the process of how I’d got there. Yet, rather than explaining my difficulty to the tutor, I spent an hour trying to convince him that I understood it, when in reality, it had made no sense to me at all. Janet wasn’t much cheered when I recounted this experience, especially when I told her how dismally I’d done in the exams at the end of my first year, before giving up Engineering. But from that moment on, I resolved that I would never try to cover up my inadequacies when I was receiving instruction with a horse, and I would never again pretend to understand something I didn’t.

A common student fear was that once Monty left, at the end of the first week, the rest of the course might seem a little flat. We needn’t have worried. Kelly stepped into the fray, and we got straight back into the swing of things. It soon became clear why Monty considers her the best teacher of his methods anywhere in the world, and whilst I may have initially felt a little regret that I wasn’t chosen to work in the pen while Monty was on the course, I quickly realised that having Kelly teach me didn’t constitute ‘second best’. My concerns about her unhorsey feminine appearance quickly dissolved. There was serious horse work to be done on the course, and Kelly was more than up to the job.

The weeks settled down into a steady rhythm: Tuesdays to Fridays at the college, then the weekend teaching riding, with Monday to myself to catch up on the muck clearing and to try out new techniques. Sensi was astonished when I started visiting her every morning at 6 a.m., practising halt transitions by the circular light of the street lamps that overhung the edges of her field. Monty had told us that he had taught his horse Dually how to do those amazing sliding stops by riding straight at the walls at the end of the school. As the horse gathered himself to stop, Monty would sit back and say ‘whoa!’ Once Dually understood the association, Monty would sit back and say ‘whoa’ before Dually reached the end of the school. The idea was that the walls were quite a long way apart, and after a while the horse would eagerly start anticipating the command. If, however, he failed to stop, Monty could push him on until he reached the wall. The field where Sensi lived had tall hedges all around the edge, and I would ride her at these as fast as I dared on the frosty grass. She very quickly got the idea, and would do some pretty convincing transitions from canter to halt.

It was fascinating to see how the horses on the course developed over the ten weeks. The two ‘starters’, Candide and Magic, which Monty had worked with on the first day, progressed steadily, calmly, with no problems. The third horse, Rosie, turned out to be quite a challenge. Athletic and sharp, she was wary and distrustful of everything. It soon emerged that she wasn’t a ‘normal starter’, but was in fact ‘remedial’. The owners had already had a go at breaking her in, but by the time she had reared over backwards twice on long-lines, they had decided to send her away to the course. They hadn’t explicitly lied about her background, but they had omitted to tell us some very important facts. Then, in my naivety, I was shocked. Now I know this is commonplace, and we always ask very specific questions before horses arrive with us for training, and take the horse’s word for it rather than a human’s. Even the most honest owner may not have been told the truth by those who have trained or owned the horse in the past.

Other horses arrived on the course – four more starters, a terrified pony, a huge two-year-old with attitude, and a napping horse that wouldn’t nap. I soon got my time in the pen. I was lucky enough to be closely involved with two of the starters, and spent a lot of time working with the nervous pony, particularly in the evenings after the course. It was fascinating to see how Kelly approached the training of each horse, treating each as an individual and adjusting the technique accordingly. Even though I felt that I had finally found a teacher who felt the same way about horses as I did, I was occasionally surprised by the choices she made. It worked out every time and I found myself having to reconsider the ‘truths’ in which I believed.

Another memorable part of these journeys was an audio tape of Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels, which I had borrowed from the library, on Adam’s insistence that I fill in some of the literary gaps left by my ‘radical’ education. In the last section of the book, after his escape from the little men in Lilliput, and many other adventures, Gulliver arrives at an island ruled by horses, called Houhynhyms. So pure of thought and spirit, despite their advanced scholarship, they have no concept of, nor word for lying, simply calling it ‘to say the thing which was not’. The non-violent civilisation they have created would be perfect but for the presence of the human ‘yahoos’, who live and breed like vermin, exhibiting all the vices of mankind.

Increasingly, as I drove, I felt ashamed at what we have done to the world, not least to horses, and to each other. From the time of Swift, when horses were so universally enslaved for the use of man, to the present era, horses, still deeply misunderstood by so many people, seem to represent one of the last windows left open onto our rustic past. Our partnership with the horse has been at the centre of that nostalgic dream-idyll, blown aside by the relentless pace and mechanisation of our culture, but for which so many of us yearn. The simple lifestyle of a horse, the peace we find in their company (when we have time to feel it), their profoundly generous nature, point us to a more honest existence than our own.