AN incongruous sight has been intriguing folk in the Rede Valley in recent weeks.

A little fat man has been taking an even fatter little pony for apparently pointless walks on the end of a lead, like a overgrown dog.

The man wears a paint-spattered boiler suit, with the press studs at the front struggling to contain his corpulence, while the whole of the back of the garment is thickly encrusted with mud, where he fell flat on his back in a puddle while trying to lash down a heavy tarpaulin to protect a delivery of straw bales.

It has been suggested that the uniformed man, who has a naturally sunny disposition, bears an uncanny resemblance to The Laughing Policeman recorded by the musical hall star Charles Penrose in the 1920s and played every week by Uncle Mac on the BBC Light Programme’s Children’s Favourites for the rest of eternity.

The pony saunters along, his vast belly just about brushing the ground, blinking benignly at the world through long lashes a model would die for.

He is supposed to be wearing a head collar, but the man who puts his head in it every day can never cope with all the different straps and buckles, and one day, the metal loop to which the lead rein is attached was on top of his head, between his ears, rather than in the correct location under his chin.

He could probably back out of the whole thing without the man noticing, but he is a kindly old soul, and strolls along without ever really being fully under control.

Welcome to the the world of Hextol the temporary horse wrangler, an innocent abroad in a world of never-ending toil at either end of the equine alimentary canal.

The day starts while it is still dark with the shovelling up of more than enough dung to grow a stick of rhubarb from here to the moon, and then laying down enough straw to make a million scarecrows, followed by refilling the horses’ feed buckets with groaning barrowloads of hay, oats and sugar beet, to ensure that the whole process can be repeated the following day ad infinitum.

It’s strenuous toil for a portly pensioner who spent 50 years sitting behind a desk eating pies and quaffing ale, and I am getting more exercise than if I had joined an expensive gym.

And a highlight of the day is, of course, my little stroll with Hamish, the white Shetland pony who is so old he may well have taken part in the Battle of Bannockburn.

Officially, he is 19 but there is something about that Saurian jaw, those intelligent eyes and indomitable spirit that indicate he has been around a lot longer than that,

But he has become a bit of a porker over the years, the Fat Owl of the yard, and has been put on a strict diet, as well as subjected to a military exercise regime.

My instructions are to walk him a couple of hundred yards around the periphery of the stables every day, whilst ensuring that he gets nothing extra to eat on his peregrinations.

That means keeping him in the centre of the track, away from the lush vegetation on either side, so I have to walk through all the puddles while he picks his way daintily down the middle of the lane.

It is only when we turn around at the end of the lane that Hamish is galvanised into action, suddenly lurching to the side of the track to snatch a mouthful of grass, with a sly grin on that ancient visage,

Because of his diminutive stature, Hamish lives in a specially-adapted stall in the stables, with the usual high door replaced by a stout wooden pallet, so he can peer around at the comings and goings in the yard rather than staring at a blank door.

He spends the day with his head poking out through the pallet, like a tortoise from its shell, amiably watching the world go by – or so it seems.

For once the day’s work is done, and the stable door is closed, the little Houdini shrugs his little shoulders, does a little shimmy, and manages to move the pallet just enough for him to squeeze out and stuff his face on any oats, carrots or hay that he can reach.

I caught him at it last week, and had to butt him with my belly to get him back behind bars.

Extra security has now been provided to forestall any repeat escapes.