When I stand by my horse and I bury my face into his neck and shut my eyes. I smell an animal that I would have smelt as I landed on the beach at Hastings, as I took Calais, as me and him moved with Richard across the field of Bosworth, standing with Charles at Naseby in frustration, my face buried into his neck as I was told to mount to race the lines at Waterloo, charged the cannon at Balaclava, beat through the Boar at Spion Kop, looked for the G at the Somme.

The smell of a horse has not changed through all this time. Perfect living history.

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