My favourite hunter has died and I am bereft. No disrespect to the myriad other horses I have known and loved over the years – Ianto, Alfie, Mr Darcy, Thurlow, Boris, Shannon, Etonia, Langford, Motown, Eddie Stobart, Foxy, Totto the polo pony, Sunshine, B.G., Barnaby and the legendary Spartacus. But Carpenter was in a league of his own.

‘You sound more upset about Carpenter than you are about Grandpa,’ said Boy, referring of course to my beloved late father Malcolm, whom I have just buried. ‘Yes, but Grandpa never carried me over hedges in life or death situations,’ I replied.

This is the thing that non-hunting people will never understand. Your mount isn’t so much a horse as he is your closest wartime comrade. You’ve been through hell together – wind, rain, mud, hail; you’ve braved fences, ditches, rivers, wire entanglements, rabbit holes, low branches; you’ve seen riders all around you come horribly unstuck, sometimes sustaining injuries requiring them to be helicoptered off the field. Yet somehow you’ve survived. And all thanks to the stamina and courage of the four-legged life-saver who has revelled with you in every moment.

Your mount isn’t so much a horse as he is your closest wartime comrade. You’ve been through hell together

Your mount isn’t so much a horse as he is your closest wartime comrade. You’ve been through hell together

I first met Carpenter after a long, painful period in which I’d been banned from hunting by my entire family because I’d sustained a........

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