Diary of a point-to-pointer: Memorable visits to the Emerald Isle

"You are riding Tex in a One Day Event." I laugh, Alison doesn't because she's not joking. This subject has been thrown around in conversation before, but I usually manage to distract her before the idea becomes rooted. Not this time.

There is reason behind my trepidation. You may recall Tex (Texas Ranger) was my favourite horse. In his heyday, he would spreadeagle the field in a matter of furlongs and gallop relentlessly for three miles with little regard for anything other than being first past the winning post. Absolutely ideal for a racehorse – but for a budding eventer? It promises to be an eye-shutting experience.

Two years ago, I persuaded Alison, a seasoned event pro, to buy Tex as her schoolmaster. She realised how strong-willed he was when winning their first race by 20 lengths. She returned as white as a sheet but elated.

She is now suffering a belated addiction to the sport at 39 years-old, which I rightfully get blamed for.

Trepidation or not, I am signed up for a month of dressage lessons on this snortingly eager racehorse. It's quite a task for me to remember a test, never mind carry one out in a relaxed and controlled manner. Hypnotherapy has crossed my mind, anything to stimulate the memory part of my brain that went on strike after my long list of soil-sampling exploits.

Jumping isn't our problem. The bit in between the fences may well be.

I'm not the most patient when a time limit is in place and Tex doesn't need much encouragement. Alison's partner trains the German Event team and she has her work cut out to get us to a level where she'll admit to knowing me afterwards.

I am off to Ireland now to view some youngsters one of my owners has bred.

He always sends his mares to well-chosen, inexpensive stallions which usually end up being top jump sires.

He and his father have bred some cracking young stock over the years, including the winner of the Irish National. We have been friends since meeting at the 1996 Galway Festival.

He overheard my Yorkshire accent and then I couldn't get rid of him.

His joie de vivre sets Yorkshire alight every time he comes to stay, as many of my female pals will vouch for.

My annual excursion to the Emerald Isle is all the more memorable for the rugged wildness of his home on the south-west coast – a grey shingle cottage standing on the edge of the village, boat moored on the jetty bobbing about on the tide.

After a tour of the farm and horses, we begin his favourite holiday ritual – sailing, pub, sleep, sailing, pub, then a little jaunt along the coast to do some dolphin-spotting on the way to yet another pub.

Every August the locals jump in their boats and head to a small island for a regatta which mainly entails visiting everyone else's boat for more drink and lots of singing. This is Craggy island and my owner could be Father Ted (without the dog collar).

I came home last year with a super three-year-old colt and a chest infection, having survived on a diet of Guinness, whiskey and soda bread (they don't waste much time eating).

The Irish always did know how to enjoy life.

The forecast is heavy rain so I expect the landlord will already have our drinks on the bar.

Jo Foster trains horses at Brookleigh Farm, Menston.

CW 7/8/10