FORGET six packs and all that – I used to pride myself on telling the grandchildren I had a belly of steel.

I would invite them to whack me in the stomach as hard as they could, and then tense my abdominal muscles so I did not feel a thing.

The old abs have slackened off somewhat since then, but were certainly put to the test the other day.

I was back among the horses in my second home in Upper Redesdale, mucking out the residence of a deceptively benign-looking stallion of doubtful parentage.

Having filled one barrow with his outpourings, I emptied another of fragrant straw into his stall, and his pleasure was evident.

He sank down into the straw and rolled on his back in ecstasy as I looked on with a soppy grin. He then leapt to his feet – and flicked out both back legs to kick me forcefully in the stomach.

I like to think he didn’t do it deliberately, and it was just a gambol of joy, but I went down like a collapsed cheese souffle.

My lungs discharged air that hadn’t been expelled into the atmosphere since Albert Quixall signed for Manchester United, and my agonised “Ya bugga!” came out as a breathy zephyr.

I waited with weary resignation for the scars from my recent stomach operation to open up and start disgorging yards of messy innards, but the stitches mercifully held.

I sat sharing the straw with the puzzled horse for some minutes until I realised, with enormous relief, that there appeared to be no lasting damage and set about my work once more.

After 50 years behind a desk, getting down and dirty with the horses presents a whole new set of challenges, among the getting up at 6am every day to head for the hills.

The hills look lovely when shrouded in snow, but driving through them in the dark in a skittish car is not for the fainthearted.

It’s not just the snow falling from the sky you have to look out for – those capricious winds which blow all year round on top of Hareshaw Head can turn a black road into an Arctic hell hole in a matter of seconds.

I came across one such drift while travelling at a reckless 15 miles per hour, and could have auditioned for Dancing on Ice until the road miraculously turned black again.

And when at work, those horses need watching like hardened criminals.

I was tasked with changing the bedding in a shed full of supposedly placid ponies.

I loaded my barrow with straw, opened the gate – and when I turned to grab the barrow, about a dozen or so nags came barging past me like something out of that award-winning Guinness advert of a few years ago.

Luckily, a more experienced stable hand was in close proximity and managed to round them up and return them to base after a hectic few minutes, while I envisaged them galloping en masse up the A68 for the Freedom of Scotland.

My gaffe in letting them loose was embarrassing enough, but my face grew ever redder when I did what I should have done in the first place, and threw the straw over the gate and then attempted to climb over after it.

My attempted manly vault dismount turned into a wobbly slither as I landed in an ungainly heap, surrounded by curious horses who peered at me so closely their hot breath steamed up my glasses, already askew Eric Morecambe-style.

I was entrusted with taking the quad bike, with a trailer-load of muck attached, to the midden some quarter of a mile or so away.

As a motorcycle rider with 50 years’ experience under the saddle, I was quietly confident this was something even I could not mess up, but my debut journey lasted about six feet, which was how long it took me to jackknife the trailer while attempting to reverse.

I then made matters worse by opening the throttle so vigorously that the quad all but pawed the air in the manner of a Ferrari stallion and almost unseated my instructor.

She had the last laugh though, as the following day, we were walking across the icy yard – something I had done about 50 times that day – when my feet suddenly shot out from beneath me, reached shoulder height, and I landed on my back with a meaty thwack.

I don’t think she has stopped laughing yet.