Although there was a lack of trees and any evidence of nature in my Notting Hill slums as a child, there were a large number of horses. Horses were everywhere in the stables of West London’s Notting Hill and Paddington. They were the large cart horses that stood way above even the tallest handler. Horses were humanising and the smell of their droppings still haunts me all these years later.
But one day as a four-year-old I saw something that showed the tragic side of life for a working horse. From