There is always a beginning; I just don't know where this one starts. Perhaps in Cyprus where as a boy I was allowed to ride a mule from which an old man and his wife sold their produce. There was magic in the anticipation of their coming. The coloured costume of the mule and the traditional garb of the mountain folk were accompanied by the mixed aroma of the tomatoes, peppers, onions and plaits of garlic hanging from the fruit laden panniers. They are still a vivid memory today.

I spent some early years on Cyprus as my father was seconded to the Cypriot Police during what was termed as "The Troubles" in the late 1950's. It was the time of Archbishop Makarios's regime. Occasionally, we would stay at a country cabin in the Trodos Mountains. It was set amidst pine trees, approached by a steep and winding dirt road. At this cool isolated retreat, the only fresh provisions were delivered by mule.

I looked forward to the visit of the elderly peasants, him with his baggy trousers and his wife wrapped in voluminous swathes of cloth from head to toe. While the kindly couple chatted to my parents I would stroke and caress the mule. The business concluded, I was hoisted up amongst the fruit and vegetables and led round in front of the house. I felt on top of the world.

On our return from Cyprus my mother and her great friend 'Aunt P' established a country restaurant, later to be featured in the Good Food Guide. Our ever-popular Auntie Winnie served table while my two sisters and I worked behind the scenes, laying tables and doing the washing up. My father meanwhile was working for the Australian Embassy in Moscow. It was all quite normal for us but for our new-found friends in the village we were something of an odd bunch!

During his leave, my father used to take me to his friend's farm. Roy ran a mixed fruit and sheep farm in Kent and this is where my love of horses started to flourish. In amidst the usual tumble of sheds, barns and lean-to's, spilling out with farm machinery of all kinds was constructed a fine stable yard. In the yard were housed the most magnificent horses I had ever seen. Championship Palominos.

Naturally I started at the bottom but my first hands-on experience were frustrating and disappointing. My father rode a tall bay thoroughbred in his spare time but his little companion pony never got out of the field, hence I was invited to ride "Bumble".

"Bumble" was a multi-coloured pony, as round as the apples in the orchard where he was kept. He was very friendly but only at arms length! I spent many days, as instructed, getting to know him and thought all was going well. I talked to him, fed him, patted him and eventually having gained his trust, brushed him and he never needed to be tied up. The reason, it transpired, was that he was quite happy to stand free but when it came to the rope and head-collar, oh no,he didn't like that at all.

All attempts at catching him failed. Roy, feeling sorry for me, took time away from his busy day to help in his capture. We tried cajoling him with a feed bucket, talking patiently to him and gradually surrounding him with arms stretched out. Cornered, head down and from a standing start, "Bumble" would suddenly bolt beneath a low hanging branch and was gone. Extra help was sought from Philip the tractor driver, some seasonal farm hands and their wives and I might as well include Uncle Tom Cobbly and all: it was all to no avail. He eluded us all. Despite our best efforts we never did manage to catch the little beast. So my start with actually riding was halted before it began.

The "real" horses kept by Roy and his wife, were a stallion and broodmares and they were either too valuable or too big for me to ride. In truth, although I was very keen to help and learn, I was probably a nuisance as this was not a riding school but a working farm with expensive breeding horses. Consequently the adults were busy with the daily chores that seemed never ending so I did my best to make myself useful.

I learnt the jobs of a shepherd from Roy and his tractor driver-cum-shepherd, Philip. I enjoyed checking the flocks, assisting in lambing time, running them through the foot baths, trimming their feet and "dagging out" the sheep's tails. I helped Philip with the fence repairs and was occasionally allowed to drive the tractor. For pocket money, together with my sisters, we picked and packed apples and pears alongside the seasonal workers. But my main interest was always the horses. They were such individuals and the prohibition from the stable yard unless an adult was present made them that much more alluring.

I gained knowledge of basic horsemanship with hardly realising it. I learnt the stable routine and enjoyed every minute. I did everything starting with the mucking out and the feeding routines, I then progressed to grooming and turning out while learning the finer points of the Western tack as well as cleaning it in preparation for the shows.

Roy's horses had been imported from Canada in the early 1960's with the stallion Mack's Golden Stepper (known as Joe in the yard) winning Supreme honours in '64 and '66. Although I didn't realise it at the time, took things for granted you might say, Joe, as befits a champion, was magnificent. With a large crested neck, coat of gold, flaxen mane and an exaggerated movement, he was indeed supreme.

These horses and their origins inspired my imagination. Loving the outdoor life as I did, I was somewhat lazy as a reader but one book really captured my imagination. "The Biography of a Grizzly" touched me and it was some years later that armed with two addresses of friends of friends I set off for Canada at the age of 17.

Before that we moved to a country house in Wadhurst, East Sussex and my father, following his retirement, started to keep his own horses. I was still at school but spent all my spare time with either his or other people's horses. With my friends mostly involved with football, motorbikes or cars I felt a little out of place and I enjoyed my different experiences.

By this time I was quite proficient around horses but my only involvement with the foot of a horse was in picking it out to keep it clean. Once cleaned of mud and stones, the foot was oiled and it was just a part of the grooming process. There was no understanding of the hoof past the basics. With my hunger for knowledge, I was always fascinated when the blacksmith came to shoe the horses.

While holding the horses for him I constantly asked questions which he patiently answered. With hindsight he was probably exasperated but I had decided I wanted to learn the trade myself.

My father's blacksmith, Rodney Bassett, was a wonderful man. He was the last farrier and blacksmith in a family business stretching back generations and he was as fine a country gentleman that you could wish to meet.

Rodney's forge on the outskirts of the village was a large wooden and glass L-shaped building, part of which was on two floors. The expanse of glass running across the front and side had not let daylight in for many a year due to the coal dust and grime. The building, now sadly demolished, housed not only the once bellow driven forges, the anvils and shoeing bays but an area where once the coaches, carriages and carts were built. This part of the building had an elevating floor.

The carpenters, joiners and wheelwrights built their vehicles upstairs and upon completion the whole floor would be lowered down and the vehicle wheeled out into the yard. Once the floor was hoisted back into place by means of block and tackle, work would commence on the next project. Meanwhile the unfinished vehicle would be pushed into the space below and the blacksmiths and coopers would fashion and fit the iron furniture and wheel rims. The whole process would later be reversed so the vehicle could be painted and varnished on the top floor. Quite some feat for a local family firm in a rural village during the Victorian era.

The rear of the forge housed the stores. "You'll find it out back" was Rodney's stock phrase for those customers looking for that unusual bolt, screw or hard to find but vital piece while he was busy at the anvil. The storeroom was home to every conceivable size of metal bar, nuts, bolts, screws, washers and an infinite amount of ancillary items. Invariably the customer would confidently wander off to this tumbledown cobwebbed Aladdin's cave of ancient ironmongery only to return downhearted and defeated in his quest but as soon as the pressing job at the anvil allowed, Rodney would stroll "out back" and put his hand on the precise item required.

The whole forge, including the outside yard was overflowing with tools, metal off-cuts, half-finished projects, completed jobs ready for collection (sometimes the work took so long that the customers even forgot they had commissioned it!) yet Rodney new where to place his work-worn hands on whatever was required at any time.

Although I was known to Mr. Bassett, as I addressed him in those days, through him shoeing my father's horses he was reluctant to take me on as an apprentice. His reasoning was quite disarmingly simple. I was too old and that was at the age of 17.

He extended me the courtesy of explaining that in the first two years an apprentice costs his Master in time and money. The second two years are spent paying him back in terms of skill levels and work accomplished while on poor wages. However, as I would be 19 and wanting to go out for a drink with the lads or dating a girl or both I would not be earning enough and may well quit the apprenticeship and leave him high and dry. Well, that was his kind explanation but it may have had something to do with the way I dressed.

This was the end of the hippie era and I had been caught up in it to a small extent. Despite my wayward looks of which my parents despaired, I was serious in my intention of getting an apprenticeship, however seen through the eyes of a Master Farrier or Blacksmith I was not the right material. Looking back, turning up for an interview with long hair, an Afghan coat and colourfully patched jeans was probably not the image I should have been portraying.

On one occasion I had a long bus ride followed by what seemed like an even longer walk to find the forge. The rain was pouring down as I walked arrived for my interview. The forge was dark and the men toiling at the anvils were soiled and sweating. I believe one look at me and my interview was over but no doubt they had a good laugh about it over a pint later that day.

This was the fifth and last attempt at finding an apprenticeship. I felt pretty low. In the meantime I had been working with horses and improving what little riding skills I had now acquired with the help of a girlfriend who was a short listed junior European three-day event rider. My desire to explore was still strong and I turned my thoughts to visiting Canada. Between morning and evening stables I took a job, although underage, as a barman and saved every penny for the trip. I collected two addresses of friends of friends, bought my ticket and brimming with confidence headed west.

Landing at Malton airport and making my way to East Toronto (not the most salubrious area) in a bitterly cold March wind with only English winter clothes was far from a joy and is not recommended. The contrast between the fully centrally heated buildings and buses to the sheer rawness of the outdoors was a real shock. The winds howling down Bay Street as I awaited my connecting tram cut straight to the bone but my seemingly frost bitten body was greeted by a warm cuddly girlfriend. Thanks Caroline.

From Toronto I went to Kingston on the St. Lawrence Seaway where I was to meet and then work for an accomplished horseman and his wife, Joe and Val, and through them my fascination with shoeing horses was rekindled.

Their blacksmiths were a father and son team; two of the largest guys I had ever come across. They were well respected in their area and although their methods were sometimes a little rough compared to English standards, it was something I became accustomed to as it's a tough country. I spent some time going to various barns (stable yards) with them learning some basics by watching and listening. Their ethic of "Work hard and play hard " was a lifestyle/motto I was to come to adopt.

My next piece of education in farriery came as I changed jobs and worked as a groom for Jim Elder, previously the Three Day Event team captain and the then Show Jumping Team captain. His regular farrier, Bill from Orangeville, came on a Wednesday, which was my day off. He was only too happy to allow me to take off shoes and finish off, that is turning over the clenches and the final filing. At last some hands on work and a chance at an apprenticeship of sorts had arisen.

However after a full season on the show jumping circuit and after studying some theory of shoeing I was inclined to return to the UK and hoped to find a proper training which with a great deal of effort I finally managed. I was introduced to the well-respected Bill who, to say the least was reluctant to take me on having trained twelve others before me. Although by this time my appearance had improved considerably, my age was a little against me but I did have at least some shoeing experience and a good deal of horse sense. After a period of begging and pleading he eventually agreed to give me a try on a part time basis. So it was at long last I had my chance.