The new rescue horse arrived. She’s a Mini Me of Swirly: dark brown, but with two white socks. The woman driving the horse box, a volunteer for the Blue Cross, let down the ramp and. I saw Beauty for the first time: huge dark eyes looking around, deeply worried. ‘Where am I? What’s going to happen to me?’ I feel so sorry for horses, their lives entirely dependent on who owns them. She tiptoed down the ramp while Swirly, in her stable, eyes on stalks, was craning her elegant neck for a sniff. They spent the night in the stables, just to settle, before Nic and I turned them out on our 26 hilly acres the next morning, along with Quincy, Nic’s boy horse. Swirly was a star: she kept herding Beauty away from Quincy, getting in between the excited, bucking hooves. I’ve had Swirly for ten years and in that one day she grew up: she knew she had to look after everyone, be in charge, the matriarch.