She was beautiful and wild, and I wanted to wrap my arms around her neck and tell her it would all be all right. I knew the most reassuring thing I could do, however, was leave her alone. We moved away from the stable, and Tina filled me in on her history.

She had bought Misty from a pony dealer somewhere in Wales. She could see the pony was very frightened, and felt that in a caring, loving environment she would grow more confident. She wasn’t convinced when the dealer said that Misty was basically well handled, but she was wearing a headcollar, and Tina thought she probably wasn’t too wild. The clincher was that Misty was in foal – and Tina very much wanted to breed a Welsh Mountain Pony foal.

When she got Misty home to Oxfordshire, however, Tina realised the full extent of her terror. For nearly a year, she was hardly able to get within ten yards of her. She and her daughter tried everything they could think of. Occasionally, after hours of very patient work, they could catch her, and she was slightly calmer once caught, but was prone to sudden panic attacks. At one stage, a well-meaning friend managed to grab hold of her, and tied her up while she combed her extremely tangled mane. Misty was terrified by this experience. It confirmed all her fears, and seemed to double her resolve to never let anyone get close enough to catch hold of her again. The patient work of months was eradicated in just one hour.

No one had ever managed to get onto Misty’s off-(right)side, and since even from a distance she always made sure that she kept people on her near-side, the belief was that she was probably blind in her right eye. Whatever had happened to her had obviously been horrific, but there was no way Tina could find out the true story. It’s rare to come across a former owner who says, ‘Oh, yes. She was naughty, so I got her in the stable and beat her within an inch of her life. She always seemed a bit nervy after that.’

Tina would have been happy to give up her dream of Misty being ridden by her grandchildren, and might have considered leaving Misty alone (praying that she never needed any veterinary care), but the problem was the foal. Now almost a year old, she followed her mother’s example, and never let anyone near her. Tina found herself with the prospect of owning two ponies she couldn’t get near! Breeding wild Welsh Mountain Ponies in Oxfordshire had never been the plan.

So they had managed to herd Misty into the trailer, and brought her to me. I was naively confident that we’d quickly be able to make a big difference, and that starting her within six weeks ought not to be a problem, although I didn’t guarantee she’d be safe for children by then. Luckily, the grandchildren were too young to be riding yet, anyway. Tina was wonderful, and said I could have as long as I needed. This was very generous, as even at the modest rate of £65 per week, we would quickly exceed Misty’s market value. As meat she would go for just a few pounds; as a normal children’s riding pony, she might be worth £500.

When her owner had left, I looked at Misty snuffling suspiciously in her ‘stable’ – this was a field shelter made secure by the addition of some zany spray-painted boards left over from a friend’s rave – and reconsidered my plan. I had intended to fetch Cobweb, our trusty old schoolmaster, from another field to keep her company. In fact, I had even thought I’d turn her out in the small enclosure that the shelter was in, but I decided against it. If she had company, ample food, water, and shelter, what possible reason could she have for wanting to overcome her terror of humans? She would simply be able to avoid us indefinitely. I fetched a bucket of water and a large mound of hay, and, trying to make myself as small and inconspicuous as possible, carefully placed these in the corner of her stable. I did this by leaning over the board – I didn’t want to invade her space and make her feel vulnerable by opening the door. As it was, she expressed great alarm at this intrusion, snorting and pacing and tossing her head. I retreated and sat nearby for a while. I wanted her to realise that I could be around her without her needing to feel troubled. The urge to try to reassure her was almost irresistible, but it was clear that, for the moment, there was nothing I could do that she would not find stressful. When I heard her begin to munch the hay, I quietly left to get ready for work.

Stepping into the Control Room at Thames Valley Police was like entering another world. It was a vast room, full of computer banks, screens, radio communications units, and recording devices. Located on the top floor of the police station, large windows looked out across the city. It reminded me of the set from Star Trek, and I always had to resist the temptation to say, ‘That is illogical, Captain’ to the shift Sergeant. Rows of uniformed operators with headsets, tapping information urgently into the computers, only reinforced the image. It could equally have been a scene from George Orwell’s 1984, as every phone and radio conversation was recorded, and it was even possible for the Sergeant or Inspector to ‘eavesdrop’ on computer screens, observing every word you typed while listening to the phone call you were receiving. This was reassuring when dealing with irate, abusive, or threatening callers, but could be unnerving the rest of the time.

Telephone operators received calls from the public, both routine and emergency, and then sent these details to the radio operators, who communicated directly with the police officers on the beat. Everyone took turns in these two roles, and no one could ever know if they were going to spend the shift dealing with armed sieges, violent assaults, and multiple-victim road traffic accidents, or disputes over noisy neighbours and complaints about unpaid car tax. More often it was a bizarre mixture of the two. It was a strange choice of a job, perhaps, but the hours suited me, being mostly after dark or very early morning, so I could make the most of the daylight hours to be with the horses.

The evening after Misty arrived, I worked 10 p.m. to 2 a.m. I was jumpy, irrationally expecting bad news. The thought that some thug might find Misty, cornered in the stable, and do her some unmentionable harm, would not leave me. Was this paranoia? At the time there were too many stories circulating locally of horses being stabbed, the sort of chilling cruelty that seems to occur in horrible, copy-cat cycles. It bothered me that I couldn’t promise Misty that no one would ever hurt her again. After all the violence she had so clearly suffered, I wanted to protect her but ultimately I knew I couldn’t.

So, when I finished work, I cycled through the deserted streets of Milton Keynes, straight down to her field. An eerie stillness pervaded the silent city. I skimmed past our flat, where I could see the lights were all out – Adam must be asleep.

She was just where I’d left her, seemingly none the worse for wear, just finishing off the last scraps of hay. I let myself into her stable, and she shot to the back, watching me warily. I sat down in the corner, and tried to make myself appear harmless. I hummed a little, and munched a snack bar, watching my breath as it floated like smoke across the cold stable. I wanted her to know that I had no intention of trying to touch her. As time went by, she relaxed: her head lowered a little, her tail wasn’t clamped quite so tightly into her body. I was sitting near her last bits of hay – if she wanted them, she’d have to come near me. This was altogether too much for her to contemplate, but as I continued to sit still and do nothing, she began to let down her guard. After half an hour or so, she rested a back leg. Another half hour, and her ears began to droop. She’d had a tiring day – another half hour, and I think she would have dozed. But it isn’t exactly warm in April at 3 a.m: my legs were cramping, and I’d lost all sensation in my feet. I got up, staggered along the side of the stable, and broke the spell.

Her head shot up with a start, and she sprang away. As I limped and hobbled backwards and forwards along ‘my wall’, she paced backwards and forwards against ‘her wall’ – the back wall – always staying diagonally opposite me, maximising the distance between us. I kept moving slowly back and forth along the same stretch of wall – I wanted my actions to be predictable for her, and to give her a space that she could be confident I wouldn’t invade. As sensation began to return to my legs and feet, I decided to keep walking, noticing that her reaction was slowing down and becoming less violent. Then she did something that astonished me. She stopped moving.

I stopped too, holding my breath, unsure of what to do. Why had she done this? It couldn’t have been a mistake – her spatial awareness was far too great for that. By staying in one corner as I moved back along my wall, she had deliberately chosen to allow me closer. I started trembling. Could this really mean what I thought it did? I moved a step or two away from her, desperate to reward her gesture in some way. She shuffled a half step in my direction.

I moved again, and she took a tiny, tentative step. I forced myself to breathe. I was sure she could hear my heart racing, even though she was still a good 10 feet away from me. She was putting her desperately fragile trust in me, and I knew I mustn’t do anything to betray it. We kept up our slow, wary progress, and I came to the end of my wall. What to do? I knew I couldn’t move back towards her, that would be much too frightening for her, but if I went along the next wall, I would be moving into what was previously ‘her’ space. I decided to risk it. She hesitated a moment, and then followed me.

At times like this, you wish you had eyes in the back of your head. I couldn’t risk looking at her – the slightest eye contact might terrify her. I didn’t even want to turn my head. But, as we crawled along the back wall, I realised we were silhouetted by the street light. She was now only about 6 feet away from my back. I watched our shadows creep closer as step by step she inched her way closer. When she was only 2 feet away, I made a huge mistake. I leaned back towards her, almost imperceptibly. She jumped back as if stung, and suddenly we were as far apart as we could be. I cursed myself for being so stupid – and greedy. That’s the problem with humans, I muttered, always pushing it too far, asking for too much, never content with what they’re given. I was stuck, now, too – I couldn’t be further away from her because we were diagonally opposite each other again now. If I moved, I’d be closer to her, and she’d have to retreat to keep her distance. I moved anyway. She moved too. I stopped, and she didn’t. I didn’t deserve it, but she’d given me another chance: she was coming closer again.

We went around the stable three more times in this strange, shuffling dance. It was past four in the morning. I gave her more hay and water, and cycled wearily home to bed.

Adam is used to the fact that my feet defy the laws of thermodynamics – giving out unfeasible amounts of cold, unable to absorb heat – but even he was astonished (and awoken) by their impossible iciness. ‘Everything all right?’ he murmured drowsily.

‘Oh yes,’ I said, cuddling up to the warmth emanating from his body, ‘very all right.’

When I woke up later that morning, I realised that my initial assumptions about Misty had been wrong. I had thought that we would spend a long time ‘negotiating’ about having people in her personal space. Her reward for allowing someone near her would be for that person to move away. It could take a week or more, working several hours a day, before she might even take a single step towards me. However, the events of the night before led me to a realisation: Misty wanted to overcome her fear as much as we wanted her to. She wanted human contact, too. But she was still terrified that someone might beat her again. I had made more progress in that first midnight session than I would have dreamt possible. Had I known how deep-rooted her problems were, however, I might not have felt so optimistic.

After a hasty breakfast, I cycled back down to the field. When I arrived at the gate, she looked up at me but didn’t immediately back away. I tried to saunter casually up to her, moving slowly but hoping I didn’t resemble a prowling cat. The noise as I opened the door to her stable was too much, and she moved away, but as I started my slow circling of her box, she started to follow me again. She had a burr in one ear, and something stuck to one of her eyelashes, but I knew it would be days, if not weeks, before I could remove these for her. Whatever else I did, I knew I had to keep my hands to myself.

I saw Misty several more times that day. I decided it would be a good idea if she saw lots of people, from a distance, and realised that she was still safe, and that they weren’t all out to get her. So she met my mum and Adam, and meanwhile we continued circling slowly around the stable, building up more trust with each revolution.

My nocturnal visit that evening brought me one step closer to her. She let me stand by her near-side shoulder. Rather than trying to touch her with my hand, I leaned into her gently. She stepped back abruptly, but didn’t break away. After a few more attempts, she let my body brush against hers. Trying to keep my pulse rate low, and my adrenaline down, thinking only friendly thoughts, I gently touched her shoulder with the back of my hand. Her whole body quivered. But she stayed still. Slowly, I started to scratch her neck. As I stroked her, she very gradually started to relax, finding safety in the presence of a human being for possibly the first time in her life.

The stables, of course, were immaculate. The tack room was an orderly vision of supple leather and polished steel, a time-warp, belonging to an era long gone for many, a time when taking care of such matters could be a daily priority. The Queen’s Equerry had just finished showing us around one of the outside yards, when we heard a clattering of hooves behind us. Retreating quickly around the corner, we realised we had narrowly avoided meeting the Duke of Edinburgh, who was returning from a drive with his team of gorgeous Fell ponies. Our undignified rush for cover amused the Equerry, but we had no desire for a Royal encounter. Once we were sure the Duke had gone, we peered into the stables to see the Fells. Gleaming with sweat, flecked with foam, they stood gently steaming, their compact bodies bulging with power. With their long, flowing manes, and thick winter coats, they made a stark contrast to the elegant thoroughbred we had come to see, but to my eyes they were every bit as beautiful. Gillian finalised the details of the sale, and we set off for home.

This journey back to Milton Keynes was the start of a very annoying habit that continues to plague me – getting so engrossed in a conversation about horses that I stop paying attention to the road. It wasn’t until we saw signs for Gatwick that we realised we were going the wrong way around the M25. Anxious to rectify our mistake, we left the motorway immediately – only to find ourselves on the M23, heading for the south coast! At least sitting in the rush-hour traffic gave us plenty of time to talk.

When we got back to Milton Keynes, I asked Gillian to come and meet Misty. Misty viewed her with her customary suspicion, but seemed to be resigning herself to the notion that her social calendar would now be filled with such encounters. We must have got too engrossed again. It wasn’t until we were about to leave that we realised that someone had smashed Gillian’s car window to grab some spare change off her dashboard. It had been parked about 20 feet away on the other side of a hedge. I should have been more sympathetic, as I gave her the number for the police station, but I was far too excited. Misty had just then allowed me to touch her head!

Over the next couple of days, I consolidated this work with Misty until I could touch her head and neck and shoulder on the near-side, and even attach a rope. I touched her headcollar, too, but was very careful not to put any pressure on her head – I didn’t want her to feel at all restrained. It was very clear that her off-side was still a non-starter – I couldn’t even move my hand over her neck to touch the other side without her panicking. On the fourth day, I let her out into the small paddock. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get near her again, but I couldn’t bear keeping her cooped up any longer.

I needn’t have worried. By using the mildest form of aggressive body language – simply looking in her direction – I could get her attention, and then by becoming passive and moving away, I could draw her to me. As long as I didn’t move my hand too fast, I could even touch her. Best of all, she now saw her field shelter as her safety zone, and if ever she felt worried or confused, she would rush straight into it. I could simply follow her in and re-establish contact. This surprised me: horses are animals of the plains, and naturally tend to find security in wide open spaces. To be trapped in a confined space in the wild would mean certain death. I couldn’t believe my luck the first time I saw her do it. I thought it must have been a mistake, but soon realised it was a deliberate choice. It was where she had been given a space of her own, after the terrifying ordeal of travelling, and it was where we had forged the beginnings of a bond together. As long as I didn’t blow it by making her experience in the shelter an unpleasant one, I felt confident I’d always be able to get near her.

She had a black, five-year-old, Welsh Cob mare, Dilly, who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, with the express purpose of getting Julia back into horses after a several-year break. Julia had ridden throughout her childhood, and then worked with horses after leaving school, but like so many others she had become disillusioned with the horse ‘establishment’. Dilly had definitely been broken to harness, but possibly not to ride, and Julia wanted some help restarting her from the beginning. She also had some ground-handling issues, as Dilly had very much her own views about who should be in charge of speed and direction while being led. Julia didn’t want to send Dilly away anywhere, so I arranged to visit her at her home in Hertfordshire a fortnight later.

This was the earliest appointment we could make, largely due to my strange hours in the Control Room, and as she drove me out to the stables where the horse was kept, I was disappointed to hear that in the meantime she’d gone ahead and backed Dilly herself. She’d just hopped on bareback, and Dilly hadn’t reacted at all. She’d probably been ridden as well as driven in the past. Julia assured me, however, that there would still be plenty to work on.

Dilly lived on a farm open to the public, and it had animals packed away in every odd corner. There were goats, pigs, cows, chickens, rabbits and guinea pigs, and a strange assortment of stable yards crammed into all the remaining spaces. There was a shop selling a strange selection of crafts and gifts, and, I was delighted to discover, a coffee shop. The idea of having hot food and drink available where your horse lived seemed exceptionally civilised. What seemed less sensible, as Dilly had pointed out to Julia on numerous occasions, was that to get to the fields you had to lead your horse through the tables and chairs scattered outside the coffee shop and around the paddling pool filled with screaming kids, while a gaggle of territorial geese did everything they could to impede your progress.

I didn’t feel entirely comfortable in the role of ‘expert’, but Julia was lovely, and I began to feel more at ease. Slim and strong, almost wiry, she had the kind of long, fine fingers I’ve always considered artistic. An abundance of curly brown hair added a touch of softness, and her green eyes were friendly, honest and direct. Dilly, on the other hand, had an abundance of shaggy black hair, which did nothing to soften her look, and whichever angle you viewed her from, she couldn’t be described as slim. Strong, definitely. She wasn’t an aggressive mare, but she had the air of someone who wouldn’t suffer fools gladly. I prayed she wouldn’t consider me one.

Once I started working with Dilly in the school, all my worries evaporated. She responded to join-up like she’d read the book, and when I long-lined her she obliged by executing a wonderful, elevated, perfectly balanced trot. By this time I had an audience who, I later discovered, were astonished at how beautifully the horse was working. Like so many horse owners, they were obsessed with the idea of the horse being ‘on the bit’, and regularly invested in gadgets and lessons to achieve this end. In fact, Dilly was in such perfect self-carriage partly because her adrenaline was raised a little by the unfamiliarity of having the lines around her quarters, and partly because the lines themselves were causing her to tuck her quarters underneath her and ‘engage’ her hocks in time-honoured dressage fashion. Once she got used to the sensation, she didn’t perform quite like that again, but for that afternoon at least, tongues were wagging.

Julia rode Dilly that afternoon, and we also worked on Dilly’s leading. Dilly had always responded to a tight lead line by leaning backwards, and would almost sit down if she didn’t want to go somewhere. After some work in the school, Julia was able to lead her successfully past some scary objects. The whole process of turning her out and leading her around the farm would become much easier.

Julia invited me back to her flat for dinner, and as we talked, the similarities in our lives began to seem almost spooky: exactly the same age, both vegetarian, in long-term relationships of (at the time) eight years, both our partners were also musicians (principally guitarists) and teachers . . . and we had very similar views on horses. In fact, it was astonishing that we could find anything to discuss at all, since we seemed to share the same opinion on everything, except tea, which, bizarrely, she does not drink at all. But from that moment we started a conversation that has never petered out, however much time we spend together.

Whenever she could, Julia came over to Milton Keynes and watched me work with Misty. We rode the other horses out together, and she gradually took over the Saturday teaching whenever I had to work. A fast learner, with a very precise and inquisitive mind, having her around was immensely helpful. She came out on several visits with me, and another long series of conversations in cars was started, along with the usual lack of attention to the route that resulted in many missed turnings as we raced to finish our thoughts before we arrived. The post-visit analysis would keep us going through the long drives home, and much beautiful English scenery passed unnoticed outside our bubble of thoughts, ideas and insights.

Misty was like a ball of tangled string; trying to unravel her seemed impossible because you couldn’t find an end to start at, all the knots were so intertwined. She was particularly unnerved by having two people near her at once, so the option of one person holding her while the other worked around her was out of the question. She wasn’t just worried at the prospect of having someone on her off-side – as far as she was concerned, that was non-negotiable. She could not tolerate having her legs even touched, much less her feet picked up and she would immediately run if any sharp movements were made near her. The tiniest step in the wrong direction could send her flying. She was terribly frightened of the lead rope, and would shy backwards if even an inch was hanging down. The idea of getting a roller or a saddle onto her back didn’t seem particularly promising, let alone a rider. I had to quell a rising sense of panic. Would I fail the very first problem horse I had to deal with? All I could do was stay patient and gentle, and keep thinking.

One of the most difficult decisions to make when training horses is when to address something as an issue, and when to let it lie, in the often quite reasonable hope that when the horse has gained more trust, the original problem will simply disappear, or at least become easier to address. Only having access to one side of the horse isn’t really the sort of issue you can ignore, however, and I knew I had to think of some way to overcome it. With a lot of gentle persistence, I had been able to touch her off-side neck when I was standing on the near-side, but she was not at all comfortable with that.

It simply wasn’t possible to hold her head still and inch my way around to the off-side – if I tried that, she would shoot backwards and sideways in a panic, always keeping me on the near-side. Even had I been a lot stronger, I don’t think this strategy would have worked – I sincerely believe she would have fought to the death. In any case, I needed her to want to let me into her off-side; any victory won through force would be hollow. Adam and I came up with two strategies, one quite clever and one unbelievably stupid. It was her reaction to the quite clever strategy that should have alerted me to how stupid the other one was.

We talked it through. ‘You know, it’s not actually impossible to get on Misty’s off-side,’ Adam pronounced. This was a definition of ‘impossible’ I hadn’t previously come across.

‘While you’re on her near-side, there are people in the garden on the other side of the field who are on her off-side, they’re just not very close.’

‘Yeeesss,’ I said, not even trying to conceal my scepticism. ‘I can’t see them being particularly helpful, though.’

‘No, I know, but really we just have to work out how close she’ll tolerate someone on that side, and even if it’s three hundred yards, that’s a start, and we can work on getting in closer. You know, keep working on the edge of her comfort zone, just using advance and retreat, with the emphasis on retreat.’

It was worth a try and we put the idea into practice later that day. I walked around with Misty following me in the stable, and Adam stayed outside, about 50 yards away. At a certain point in her circuit around the stable, she would have to let Adam be on her off-side. She made that moment as brief as possible, by hanging back for as long as she could, and then rushing past. She couldn’t not go past him, otherwise she would be letting me walk up close behind her, an even less acceptable option. It was clear that the process caused her deep concern, even at such a distance, but we took care not to let her get too frightened. We let her get used to it bit by bit.

Along the same principles, we also worked with her outside the stable. I would hold her, and Adam would walk around her, at a distance of some 30 yards, and make his way to her off-side. She would keep him on her off-side for the briefest possible moment, pivoting to face him and put him back on her near-side as quickly as possible. It was slow, tedious work, not least for Adam who had to walk such large circles! In her frantic attempt to keep Adam on her near-side, Misty would often bash into me and startle herself in the process. She was like a small, rather hairy, unexploded bomb, always on the verge of going off.

We worked a lot in this manner, and made some significant progress. The problem was it required both of us. Our jobs in the Japanese school and Thames Valley Police meant that our paths simply didn’t cross often enough, and supportive though he was, Adam wasn’t prepared to meet me down in the paddock at two o’clock in the morning. I had to come up with a way to work on the problem on my own.

What would Monty do? I wondered. I hadn’t seen him work on exactly this problem, but I had seen him work with several horses with phobias, and it seemed largely a case of demonstrating to the horse that there was nothing to be feared. There was always a tense moment while the horse confronted its demons, and then huge relief as it realised it wasn’t so bad after all. If I could just get to her off-side, I reasoned, she’d realise it wasn’t so bad. The fact that we’d been trying to convince her of this for several days already didn’t daunt me. There was a degree of logic to this confidence: a horse that has been badly treated will often have the same sort of ‘distance’ issues. If you’re far enough away that you can’t hurt them, they’re happy. If you’re close and you haven’t hurt them, it’s possible you mean them no harm. If you’re at about striking distance away, you’re potentially very dangerous. Perhaps Misty was having trouble with us being in this ‘hazard’ zone, and allowing her to dwell on the anticipation of violence was the problem. It should have been abundantly clear to me, however, that Misty’s problems with her off-side weren’t suddenly going to dissolve with proximity. She was gradually getting happier about having me near her, but just realising that I was close enough to hurt her, but hadn’t done so, wasn’t good enough for her. I was going to have to prove my trustworthiness over an extended period of time.

In my mind’s eye, I could see Monty dealing with the problem and arriving at a solution within minutes. I could see Misty with Monty on her off-side, tentative but trusting, her fear diminishing by the second. I decided to gently and slowly pass a long-line over her neck, from the near-side, of course, and attach it to the headcollar. Then I would simply step behind her, pull her head around to me, and for a moment as she turned, I would be on her off-side. I could repeat the process, and she would soon realise she had had nothing to fear all along. I couldn’t think why I hadn’t come up with this marvellous idea before. I decided to work in the larger field next to her small enclosure, so we’d have a bit more space.

One thing I hadn’t taken into consideration was Monty’s somewhat heavier build and greater strength. I knew that, even at 11.2 hands high Misty was too strong to hold, but I hadn’t been prepared for the determination with which she pulled away. I wish I could say I held on to the line valiantly for a moment or two, but as soon as I stepped behind her, she shot off like a bullet and the line was instantly pulled out of my hand. I had just about been on her off-side, but only for a nanosecond. I watched helplessly as she took off hell for leather around the field, a terrible feeling of guilt creeping over me as I realised she was completely out of control and very likely to injure herself. She made several circuits, hotly pursued by the long-line. For a moment, she came out of her blind panic, saw her stable, and bolted straight into it. She stood there shaking and trembling. I got to the door and closed it behind me at the exact moment she realised that the ‘snake’ that had been chasing her was still attached. She tried to make a run for it, lost her footing on the bedding, and fell over. Scrambling to her feet, she desperately tried to jump out of the stable. The worst thing was that in her efforts to escape she was actually putting me on her off-side. This terrified her so much that she would spin around to put me back on the near-side, find herself facing the back of the stable, feel her legs being attacked by the snake, and spin back around to try to escape again. She made a desperate leap for freedom and got her forelegs over the front of the stable. It seemed that within seconds her flailing legs would break through the wood, or be broken in the process.

I knew decisive action was called for, but at the same time would have to be extremely careful not to get kicked, squashed, or trampled. Feeling strangely calm, but with my heart thumping loudly in my chest, I clambered over the door and got myself back on her near-side, outside the stable. From this position I was able to detach the long-line and take it out of the stable, and then push her feet back from where they were hooked over the barrier. Then I sat down and, now that the crisis was over, started shaking uncontrollably.

I couldn’t believe I’d been so stupid. She’d been here just over a week, we’d made some good progress, and then I’d ruined it. I’d painstakingly built up a small amount of trust – which nevertheless had taken a huge leap of faith on her part – and now I’d betrayed her. In my haste to get a result, I’d taken a stupid risk, and now I knew I was going to pay the price.

Feeling thoroughly dejected, I let myself into her stable. I might as well get started on repairing the damage, I thought, that is if it can be repaired. Misty’s eyes were still bulging with fear and she was still trembling a little, but as I walked in, something happened that I didn’t expect. She began to relax. She edged a little closer to me, and I began stroking her neck. She leaned against me, and I started to cry. I didn’t deserve it, but I was getting yet another chance.

The solution turned out to be very simple, and it fully engaged her willingness to work on the problem, while allowing her to take it at her own pace. I thought of a way to make it worth her while to confront this fear. We were both inside the stable, and I stood by the open door. She was loose, and could position herself wherever she liked. If she wanted to go through the door, however, she would have to let me onto her off-side while she went through, for I was standing on that side of the doorway. For a moment or two, it looked like she was eyeing up this option. It was clear that if she went for it, it was going to be at a considerable speed. But I reckoned that if we were able to repeat the process often enough, she would begin to slow down. She never did take the option of shooting out of the stable past me, but she felt drawn to the open door, and would repeatedly approach.

So what I did was to start scratching her neck on the near-side, standing pretty much in front of her. Before I worked out the attraction of the open door, it wasn’t possible to be standing in front of her. The fact that it was spring and she was moulting made the scratching a particular pleasure for her. She was free to move away from me, or position herself so I was back on her near-side again. Every time she moved away, however, I stopped scratching her. Every time she moved back or allowed me to move into the position I wanted to be in, I started scratching her again. She very quickly learned that I would only do what she wanted me to do when she was standing where I wanted her to stand. Gradually, I moved my fingers under her neck until I actually had my hand on her off-side. I’d already been able to do this by putting my hand over her neck, but never when standing in front of her. I soon found myself standing just to the off-side of her, scratching the top of her neck. From time to time she would come to, realise where I was, and back away. If that was what she needed to do to feel safe, that was fine by me, but sooner or later the desire to be scratched would prevail, and she would come back to me.

This represented a major breakthrough in the whole issue. Little by little, day after day, she became happier with me on the off-side, and would let me further and further down her little body, until I could just about scratch the top of her tail from either side. Making headway in this one major area allowed the tangled string of her troubles to begin to unravel. In the course of this work, she also found a key to get me to pause any training session, giving her more control over the process, and added confidence. She taught me to hug her.

It first happened when I moved a little abruptly to get to her off-side. She swung her head around to put me back on her near-side, but didn’t swing it far enough, and ended up with it on my shoulder. I immediately stopped what I was doing, and quietly put my arms around her neck. The Misty hug was born, and she soon discovered that I found it so endearing that she could get me to stop whatever I was doing if she simply put her head on my shoulder. On the few occasions when I would continue with my task, she would dig her jaw hard into my collarbone as if to say, ‘Look, you idiot, I’m hugging you, so stop what you’re doing right now!’

Misty wasn’t just a sharp learning curve for me, she was an education. Picking up her feet, putting on a roller, saddle, bridle, riding her, leading her, especially from the off-side, taking her out for walks, and long-lining her all presented challenges at least as difficult as getting onto her off-side for the first time. We over-ran the projected duration of her stay by nearly three times, but in the end we achieved all the objectives, having long since stopped charging for her. The thought of her leaving us was simply unbearable, but Tina was thrilled with the changes we had made. Looking forward to having two ponies she could actually do things with, she also sent us Misty’s foal, Pearl. Completely untouched, she was wary, but infinitely easier than Misty had been, only having to deal with fear of the unknown rather than fear of the known. She had never been caught, but within a matter of days was more relaxed around us than Misty. I tried not to think about the fact that Pearl’s rapid progress meant that Misty would soon be leaving. As I updated Tina on the phone, I slipped in as casually as possible, a comment along the lines that, if she ever decided she didn’t want Misty any more, we would gladly keep her.

As Julia pondered what to do, a police car turned up. I was at work at the time, and her first thought was, Oh my God, Nicole can somehow see what I’m doing! She’s spying on me.

Had I been working on the radios that morning I might well have received a startling message: ‘Delta papa to delta alpha. Have just intercepted two loose ponies on H8 between Woolstone and Woughton. Will assist. Over.’ Luckily, I knew nothing about it until they were safely back in their field.

‘The police were fantastic,’ Julia said. ‘They stopped the traffic and that gave me a bit of space to work with Misty and Pearl. The best thing was they let me get on with it and didn’t interfere, or rush me. By this time, I think the ponies had decided that it wasn’t so much fun up on the road after all, and with more and more cars stacking up behind the police vehicles, they were getting a bit worried. I put a bit of pressure on them, and just sort of herded them back to the field. Luckily, once they got back to the field, they chose to go through the open gate. You can’t imagine how terrified I was, thinking I’d lost them. The prospect of phoning you up to tell you they were at large somewhere in Milton Keynes, rapidly reverting to their wild state, was not appealing!’

‘Of course,’ I replied, doubt creeping in as I remembered I hadn’t really spoken to Adam about it. I knew he was heart-broken about the prospect of her leaving, but did that necessarily mean he wanted us to keep her? He was off in France anyway, at a wedding, so I couldn’t get hold of him.

‘Well, why don’t you keep her here?’ Tina suggested. ‘I really wanted the foal more than anything, and I’m sure Misty would be a lot happier here with you.’

A surge of love welled up inside me as I looked at Misty. She stood looking dejected at the bottom of the ramp. I was sure that Tina and her family would look after her well and that she’d be happy. But the pony of my childhood dreams was mine for the asking and I couldn’t turn her down. I waived the rest of Pearl’s training fee, and Tina closed up the ramp and drove her away, leaving Misty and me hugging in the field.

Adam, of course, was delighted. And although she is never ridden, Misty has an important job that no other pony could do. She hugs us whenever we need it, and she constantly reminds us that whenever we think a horse’s problems are insurmountable, we only have to think them through and we’ll come up with the answers in the end. She set us on the path of helping traumatised and abused horses. Her courage in dealing with her terror remains a source of inspiration, and, tiny though she is, she exudes a sense of quiet wisdom and dignity that makes her a pleasure to have around. Knowing that she’s safe and happy now has made all those hours of painstaking work worthwhile.