When I was two, my grandfather gave me my first horse-riding lesson. He had learned to ride in the cavalry and taught me how to sit, where to put my feet and how to hold the reins. Then he led me to the centre of a circle of hay bales and said: ‘Right, fall off.’
I said I wanted to ride.
‘No,’ said Grandpa. ‘First you learn how to fall off, as relaxed as possible and you won’t hurt yourself. It’s what they taught us in the army. You fall off and then you get straight back up again.’
I’ve no doubt Princess Anne, a highly accomplished equestrian, was taught exactly the same lesson. Fall off, no fuss, get straight back up again. It’s as good a lesson for life as it is for riding.
This week she is recovering in hospital, after being struck on the head by a horse while out walking on her Gatcombe Park estate in Gloucestershire. Ending up with minor wounds to the head, concussion and no memory of quite what happened is the last thing you’d expect after a quiet evening stroll.
But I have no doubt this extraordinary woman won’t think twice about getting back into the saddle. Like her mother, she’ll be sitting astride in her 90s.
Princess Anne on horseback at Trooping the Colour earlier this month, only a week before she was injured while riding in Gloucestershire
I can’t think of any woman I’ve admired more than the Princess Royal. I was right by the lake when she had a fall at Badminton Horse trials in 1982. She was submerged in the water as her horse, Stevie B, struggled to regain his footing. She had no patience with the photographers who rushed to get a good picture as she emerged. ‘Naff off,’ she shouted.
This is the same woman who earlier this month, at the age of 73, rode the King’s frisky horse, Noble, at Trooping the Colour, making it very clear to him who was boss.
Princess Anne and I were both born in 1950 – I in May; she in August – and as a girl, I must admit I was jealous of her. She had a big brother, which I, an only child, longed for.
She also had her own pony. I had to borrow one at the riding stables owned by the daughter of my grandpa’s best friend.
Grandpa and his friend had both been called up for National Service at the age of 18 in, happily for them, 1918.
Grandpa had suggested they should join the infantry. ‘No,’ said his mate, ‘the cavalry.’ Grandpa was hesitant, ‘But I don’t know how to ride.’ ‘Eee don’t worry lad, they’ll bloody teach you.’
Indeed, they did. My grandfather’s passion for horses after two years of galloping around Hyde Park knew no bounds. Which is how I, at the age of two, just like Princess Anne, was put on a horse for the first time.
This horse was called Captain. He’d been a pit pony and could not have been more excitable when he was out in the daylight and the fresh air. My grandfather’s teaching methods had been learned in the army.
Grooming had to be so thorough a white glove could be passed over the animal’s body without picking up so much as a speck of dust. The tack – the bridle, the saddle, the stirrups – had to shine and sparkle and it was made clear from the start that horses can be dangerous: never approach from behind and falling could cause untold damage.
During the procession, the 73-year-old Princess Royal donned her military uniform and expertly steadied her steed
Wherever I travelled, I rode. At university in Hull I managed to find a wonderful riding school with horses of the best quality.
As is so often the case, people buy themselves a hunter, have no time to give it the exercise it needs and are grateful for people like me who’ll hack them out and even compete with them from time to time.
Of course, I’ve had a few nasty falls in competitions. I remember one in particular, where I came up to a cross-country jump on a horse I trusted completely. He decided he didn’t feel like putting in the effort. And you cannot stay in the saddle when a galloping horse decides on a sudden full-stop. My back didn’t like hitting the jump one bit but, winded, I caught him and climbed straight back up.
My years in the New Forest as a young TV journalist provided hours of wonderful cross-country riding, and then came the children, London and Wimbledon Village Stables.
Ed was four when his brother Charlie was born and understandably a little put out by the attention he was receiving. I asked him if there was something he and I could do that the baby couldn’t join. He wanted to ride, he said. He loved it and it was smashing to go out together.
Later, Charlie joined us and was a very good little rider who appeared to be glued to the saddle. He didn’t really love it, though. He preferred to go to ‘mini rugby’ with his Dad. Everyone was happy.
Our move to a small farm in the Peak District meant I could have my own mare and Ed a wonderfully quick little pony. Off we would go across the hills until Ed turned 15, the age a lot of boys give up.
To be fair, he’d grown so much his feet almost touched the floor when he was on his little Rocky.
For a while I rode alone until the day I lost track of time, slowly ambling around the neighbourhood and finally getting home to a frantic husband, David, pacing the drive, picturing me dead somewhere in the hills. Riding alone is not a good idea.
Then, at the age of 56, came breast cancer, chemotherapy, avascular necrosis, a double hip replacement. It broke my heart to accept it was too dangerous for me to continue.
So, sadly, my riding life didn’t last as long as Princess Anne’s – another reason to be jealous. She can go on and on and I can’t. But I wish her continuing joy with her horses and a rapid recovery from that concussion.
What kind of daughter doesn’t make plans to show her father how much she loves him on his 80th birthday? Thomas Markle paid for his daughter’s education and introduced her to the film world in which he worked. That she appears to have no intention of showing him how grateful she is says everything about what she has become. No daughter at all.
Thank goodness for women like Gemma Arterton. Thirty-eight years old, properly covered up in a real swimsuit rather than an exceedingly itsy bitsy bikini. Then the big hat. She’ll be fine in a heatwave in Sardinia and looks gorgeous to boot.
Actress Gemma Arterton wears a pale yellow swimsuit as she takes to the Sardinian waters
Tom Bradby says there aren’t many middle-aged white male news anchors left on TV. Good. There are lots of brilliant women doing an excellent job. When Olivia O’Leary and I presented BBC’s Newsnight in the early 1980s we were known as ‘the Newsnight wives’. I like to think I paved the way for women to be taken more seriously and given the opportunities they deserve.
Is it any wonder phone theft is so ubiquitous when people walk the streets, stand at bus stops and sit in restaurants with their phones just asking to be stolen? Why are people so careless with something so important? I’d lose my life if I lost mine!
Carla Denyer, the leader of the Green Party, admits she still has a gas boiler. I shall feel no guilt about mine, then.