People are surprised I'm a keen horserider - it's unusual for a born-and-bred Londoner. 'Where on earth do you do that?' they say - before something lewd, eg 'Ride me cowboy'. And more surprised that I don't drive and have never learnt to ride a bike. I walk, get a bus, or ride.

It's not all a sunny bucolic idyll in the horse world. The trouble with horses is that - unlike, say, a second hand Audi - they have minds. I noticed this particularly when I took a little lady called Fen on one of my riding school's pub rides. Putting aside that a mounted pub crawl might be a silly idea, Fen is a child's pony. She's tiny, meek and verging on retirement. I wanted a nice, relaxing Bank Holiday. Fen scuppered this about 20 minutes into our ride in favour of her own plans - avoiding the rain by leaping out in front of a car and bolting the wrong way up the road in a bid for home and freedom. I endured the shame of being unable to stop an animal ridden by ten-year-olds and white-van men calling out 'You alright darlin'? - clearly not. My dappy riding instructor rescued me - I was mortified.

This kind of shaming incident happens most times I ride in Trent Park - a huge place to ride in North London. It's usually with little black Diesel the Asbo Horse. Recently I was momentarily distracted from Diesel in the car park of an Enfield pub by a much-needed drink arriving. I turned back. Diesel had bitten the windscreen wiper off a parked car. He looked at me - it was poking out of the corners of his mouth - as if to say 'Aren't I clever Mam?' He was pleased. Diesel has since turned the ability to bite and shred into a party piece, munching his way through rugs, handbags and - one memorable time - ripping off my friend's shirt. We're thinking of training him as a stripper.

Despite this, I love Diesel to bits - in a David-Cameron-hug-a-hoodie way. Every horse I've ever befriended has been a misfit. My great love was an Irish Thoroughbred called Caffrey. He was a little wiry horse with big ears and a hugely expressive face. He had the disreputable air of a little old man wandering forlornly all day between the pub and the bookie's.

Caffrey was fast, and Caffrey was mad. He was so mad that he wasn't allowed to be ridden outside in case he turned into an all-bucking, all-rearing, 40 miles-per-hour rodeo show. In one moment of lunacy like that, he'd fractured his skull. So, understandably, he hated having his head touched. Bridles had to assembled around his head and then dis-assembled piece-by-piece. Earlier this year, after many happy years teaching and terrifying the riding school's clients, he went into a happy retirement. This was because - despite having the energy at age 15 to jump hay-ricks - he'd developed a Victor Meldrew-ish habit of dumping any rider who displeased him, and taking himself off for an invigorating run.

Before Caffrey there was Shannon, a 17-hand Shire/Thoroughbred crossbreed. She had two things in common with an Eastenders barmaid - pretty blonde hair and a filthy temper. She had an especially implacable hatred of all small children. Then there was Spidermonkey, who couldn't - wouldn't - walk in a straight line. Dixon the Shire taught me to ride - or rather cling on for my life - as we hared arund Barnet. There were my cousin's two greedy Arab horses, Took and Peregrine. And Vandulka and Barcana, the horses I looked after on a stint working at a Czech animal sactuary - an interesting summer job which involved getting dysentery, a broken foot, and hideous, disfiguring sunburn.

Oh well. We love whom - what - we love. Maybe it's in the blood - Queensland cattle folk on one side of the family and a semi-mythical set of Yorkshire racehorse trainers on the other. It's fun. And there's the intellectual challenge of persuading a half-ton animal that your will is a much better idea than whatever it had in mind. Anyhow it beats Saturday coffee and shopping. It's a wonderful way to see the outdoors and foxes, deer and rabbits. They'd run away from someone on foot, but don't bother with a horse and rider (unless you chase them). And the physical benefits are pretty impressive. You don't just get an aerobic workout; it also does wonders for tum, bum and thigh. Even though your new and gorgeously-toned body ends up purple with bruises.

END

(c) Sophia Morphew 4 September 08

Sophia Morphew works in broadcasting

Fringe Report (c) Fringe Report 2002-2012

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