Last weekend Spuds and me, plus Toots and her horse Oliver, did a cross-country ride organised by their friend Eric in aid of his riding club. The course was the Ebbdown Farm Ride, which is a UK Chasers course along both sides of a lovely valley, about 8 miles total length. Along the way are numerous optional jumps of 2'6" to 3', and a number of opportunities to play in water. The start of the course is within hacking distance from my yard, but Spuds boxed us up anyway.

We parked on the village green where about 15 other horses had already arrived. When Spuds opened the box doors he became angry and started shouting at me. "Look here Branston", he said. "If we travel in this box for two hours, then Oliver might, just might, produce a few golden nuggets of droppings, the size and consistency of conkers. But you, my furry friend, even after just ten minutes you have to do your celebrated impersonation of a rhinoceros the morning after 16 pints of lager and a dodgy curry. Look at this mess. You've covered your compartment and the one behind you with slurry an inch deep. And I'll get it in the neck from Toots because she's got to clean it out. AND you've produced enough water to solve the drought crisis in Yorkshire". I thought of standing on his foot, but decided against it; my time will come.

The ride with its 30 or so jumps and other obstacles passed enjoyably. We split up into two groups with Spuds and Toots each leading as they knew the way. Toots' group was the knowledgeable and steady equestrian folk; Spuds' was the hell-for-leather grass-burners group. We were with my friend Squiggle the pony ridden by young Hannah, and another palomino pony called Buster with his young girl rider Laura. Both of these are from my yard, but had hacked up to the start. A couple of hours later we were back at the boxes.

By this time rain was setting in, and both the ponies and their riders were tired. "No problem", said Spuds magnanimously. "You can have a ride back in our box. There are two empty compartments, and we can all squeeze into the cab". The ponies were untacked and the equipment stowed. "Do these ponies box well?" asked Spuds as an afterthought.

"Squiggle's never boxed well", replied Hannah. "She's always a complete pain".

"And the last time we tried to box Buster", said Laura in her soft Midlands accent, "my Dad got five of his ribs broken. That's why we hacked up here really".

Spuds and Toots decided that they had to give it a try, rather than tacking the ponies up again and sending the girls on their way. It came to Buster's turn to be loaded, and all of the usual ploys were tried. Leading gently; leading firmly; a lunge-rein passed behind his legs; encouragement with a stick; nothing would persuade him to step up the ramp. Anyone too close behind would have been kicked by the lightning-fast double-barrel lashing from the hooves.

It became a spectator sport. Cars were stopping to watch the fun, as well as the inhabitants of the houses around the green. Eventually a spectator in a red pick-up truck offered some advice. "Cover his eyes" he shouted. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained" said Toots, and went to procure an old jacket. This was tied over Buster's head with the sleeves knotted under his throat. He did not object to this procedure, and with no more ado Spuds led him up the ramp as quiet as a lamb. He even did the tricky three-point turn necessary to get into his compartment. When Buster was safely tied up he simply looked out of the back of the box in amazement. "Well I ain't never seen nothing like that before" said Spuds ungrammatically.

After all of this, Squiggle walked up the side-ramp and into the back compartment without any fuss. The only problem was that the breast-bar was at about the same height as Squiggle's nose; in the unlikely event of the box accelerating at anything more than its normal glacial rate, the pony may have been shot underneath it. Spuds was subsequently told that the first time this pony had been loaded, a burly ex-Royal-Marines Sergeant had tired of the performance; he had reached between the pony's back legs, grabbed whatever came to hand, and half lifted half pushed the surprised animal into the trailer. This technique is not found in any normal manuals of horsemanship, and should not be emulated unless the person is very confident. Oliver often acts the goat when boxing-up, and Toots has found that a good stiff yardbrush stuck up his bum (bristle-end please) from a safe distance, will usually persuade him to go up the ramp. This technique worked with me when I was feeling obstructive, but Spuds has also seen a yardbrush kicked 20 yards down a lane by another 17+hh horse. Such an item is now standard equipment in Spuds' box, but he tells me that it is there to sweep out the mess that I make.