Vicky Ewan: Waiting to realise my childhood dream was well worth it

During my girlhood, I developed what can accurately be described as an obsession with horses - but only from a distance.
I was an avid reader from a young age, and loved nothing better than a trip to the library and the return saw me skipping up to my room with an armful of books that featured the most wonderful creature to walk this earth (this, of course, was pre-Miss Pup).
Those books were a constant joy, catapulting me headfirst into a fascinating world of pony clubs, stables, and horse husbandry. Through their attention to detail, my equine education was exemplary: I learnt an entire dictionary of salient terms, was well-versed in the correct way to mount, sit and hold the reins, and understood the terminology employed to describe a horse or pony's size.
My favourite author, Ruby Ferguson, who penned a series featuring the immensely likable young heroine, Jill Crewe, didn't glamourise the lifestyle - for lifestyle is what it clearly was: an all-encompassing, 24/7 existence of riding, caring for and working with horses.
I harboured no doubt that to own - or even to ride - a horse was a huge privilege that demanded commitment, sacrifice, and not inconsiderable financial outlay. Jill's mother, a widow, cheerfully threw herself into supporting her daughter's hobby, devoting her career to writing saccharine-sweet stories about children bravely battling life's misfortunes, hugely popular tales whose publication funded Jill's equine expenses.
The experience of reading the series was a cautionary tale for a hopeful young girl longing to enter this exclusive sphere; clearly, such a life was likely beyond my reach. These are life lessons many of us must learn, however, and I contented myself with novels and with drawing page after endless page of horseheads in notebooks.
As has been previously documented, I am not a gifted artist, by any stretch of the imagination; nevertheless, those rudimentary images represented some of my finest work - no skill, but heaps of enthusiasm.
A birthday visit with a couple of friends to a local heavy horse centre was a highlight in my equestrian pursuits when I turned 12, but I suppose it was sometime after reaching that grand old age that my passion began to fade and I discovered other interests, perhaps finally accepting that my love would always hover on the fringe.
It never fully receded, though, so you can imagine my thrilled response when my birthday present from my brother and sister-in-law last year revealed itself to be a voucher for an hour's riding lesson for two people.
My elder daughter, who had nurtured an affection for our four-hoofed friends similar to my own, was the obvious candidate for my companion; we selected a summer's Saturday, and I made the booking with a happy heart.
In the days leading up to our appointment, we both grew a little nervous; my daughter was just as much a novice as I, and we had little idea what to expect. Family and friends inspired and terrified us in equal measure with tales of triumph and woe, and I was glad my daughter and I were in it together when our date with destiny finally arrived one recent weekend and we set off with a car full of spectators to realise our ambition.
The venue was a farm on Exmoor, and we drove through wind and rain to reach it; indeed, as we approached the entrance, I was concerned that our lesson would be cancelled, so appalling was the weather.
Thankfully, the assistant I spoke to immediately reassured me as to the waterproof propensity of horses: we were in business. From the outset, the experience was enchanting, with a charming member of staff guiding my daughter and I alongside two plucky youngsters through the riding process.
The horse I had been allotted, a handsome piebald, was saddled and waiting in the stable, casting me sidelong looks and appearing unperturbed by my discernible lack of skill. Once the assistant had clamped hard hats on to our heads, and the two children were seated on their ponies, it was my daughter's turn to make her horse's acquaintance. Out strolled a pretty filly, slender of haunch and soft of muzzle, perfect for her rider's slight frame.
With impressive ease, my daughter mounted, maintaining a dignified pose as the assistant led her horse away a few steps to make room for my steed. I ascended the mounting block in readiness, and, setting my left foot in the stirrup, swung my right leg over the creature's broad back. Hurrah - I was astride a horse!
My fears about feeling insecure in the saddle immediately dissipated: I was wonderfully at ease as, recalling my fictional childhood companion Jill's mantra, I held the reins as lightly as I could, awaiting our leader's direction.
The following hour passed in a happy haze of sunshine, showers, laughter - and a nanosecond of fear when my horse showed alarming signs of plunging down a slope into a thicket adjacent to the path.
All was well, however, and I was in my element, full of trust for my gentle companion and admiring the vision of my daughter ahead of me, looking for all the world as though she had been born to ride.
The route we followed took us up hill and down dale, over stream and under canopy. Winding our way back to the stable, with the sea glittering in a wash of blues at our backs, and the sun chasing the shadows over the green and gold fields, I reflected how good it felt to fulfil a childhood dream. It was definitely worth the wait.