BY torchlight, I see a very distressed chestnut horse lying on its back, trapped in a deep trench between a breeze-block rear stable wall and the sheer side of a bank that had been excavated to build the stable. The poor frightened thing struggles in vain to move. It is completely trapped.
The message I had received on my pager read “horse fallen down 20ft bank, on back, Fire Brigade called”. Driving across a dark Dartmoor, I wonder what I will find. The Fire Brigade’s blue flashing lights, visible a long way away across the moor, are strangely comforting as past
