In the fields around here, gates and fences have been nibbled to the point of destruction, and in places are held together by string. Some display bites so big, it’s as if Desperate Dan has mistaken them for a steak pie. Unlike most creatures that worry away at woodwork, working in the dead of night and too small for the eye easily to detect, the culprits behind these acts of vandalism are not hard to locate. Horses, ponies and foals seem to spend hours worrying away at their wooden enclosures, perhaps on the same principle as those who use dental sticks to clean between their teeth, or babies gnawing rusks.

Hoolet Cottage used to have two hungry horses at the top of the garden, one grey, the other smaller and dark brown. They were so friendly with previous residents that they buckled the fence as they leaned over, obliging their owners to replace it. Nor were they discriminating in who they would allow to feed them. They liked anyone who could increase their calorie intake. When chewing wood palled and they went in search of a proper snack, they would knock the lid off our neighbours’ compost bins, the racket alerting them to their needs.

Not knowing much about horses, I didn’t initially know that they were Eriskays. This is a rare breed that, by the 1970s, was endangered to the point of extinction. Originally Hebridean islanders, these squat, muscular beasts were packhorses, bred to carry creels and undertake long, arduous journeys. They are descended from the Pictish horses that were ridden by our medieval forebears, including, I recently read, Robert the Bruce. Given their sweet nature, it is unpleasant to think of them being whipped into the battlefield fray.

Those were the days when, in the equine world, small was good. On a visit some months before lockdown to Huntly Castle in Aberdeenshire, I was struck by the size of the stalls in what was left of the original stables. Barely large enough for a modern motorbike, they suggest these creatures must have been petite. Pity the one that was picked to carry the gluttonous Earl of Huntly, who rivalled Henry VIII for girth. It is said that he once had hurriedly to escape the castle through a window to escape capture by Mary, Queen of Scots’ men. An image of the camel and the needle’s eye comes to mind.

In Hoolet, and hereabouts, soldiers, posses and reiver gangs of that era rode not on Eriskays but on similarly small, sturdy breeds. Prized for their stamina and strength, they were known as ‘hobbies’. No matter if the thugs’ feet were almost dragging on the ground as they raced from one pillaging to the next, so long as their steed covered the ground swiftly. In that respect, some reivers must have resembled young urban drug dealers today, wheeling through the streets on bikes so undersized, their knees are under their chins.

One of the most interesting buildings in our nearby district is at Crichton Castle, in Midlothian. The castle has its own historical and architectural fascination but its main interest, to my mind, is that it is home to one of the finest stables in the country. At first sight you’d think it was a chapel. Built in red sandstone, with two storeys, a pointed roof and crow-step gabling, this is where the castle’s soldiers kept their mounts. Ostlers would probably have slept on the upper floor, among the straw. Nothing says more about the importance of horses in this period than the magnificence of this building. You can picture the riders saddling up, strapping on their swords and heading off in a cloud of dust, like something from America’s wild west. Which, thanks in no small part to the capabilities of their horses, areas of Scotland once closely resembled.

A year or more ago, to my regret, the Eriskays left the field behind us. Much as I liked the sheep that replaced them, they were no substitute. The placid, whiskery grey mare, who I’m told produced many beautiful foals, had reached the end of her life after more than 20 years. Her companion, the stumpier, peppery, brown gelding, was relocated to a field near the burn. There, even if he is out of sight, you can sometimes hear him shoving empty plastic buckets, on the hunt for food. I miss his intelligent gaze and rough - often muddy – coat, more waterproof than a Barbour jacket. Whenever I stroked him, I’d breathe in the unbeatable smell of horse. If it could be bottled and used as an air freshener, it would bring the best of the countryside indoors.

Seeing him all alone in his new home I felt sorry for him. Then, one frosty morning, when I was walking down the brae, an unfamiliar horse poked its head over the wall, as if looking for a chat. It was another Eriskay, also brown, with a mane cropped so short it was almost punk. Despite the breed being recommended for children as a docile ride, I later heard its rider chastising it for nipping her. It reminded me of a school friend who, as an eight-year-old, had her own Shetland pony. She arrived one day and lifted her t-shirt to show her round midriff, which bore the perfect imprint of a full set of horse teeth. Although Thelwell did his best to endear these four-legged barrels to the nation, I was never fond of them. All those I encountered, including the biter, could be tetchy. These days, a Clydesdale would be my idea of a perfect ride: slow and stately, with a back so broad that, once in the saddle, you’d feel enthroned.

You can scarcely drive a mile in these parts without passing grazing horses, or riders, going at a clip as they head for open country. Some are bred for the racecourse or the hunt, but as many are enjoyed simply for hacking, without any competitive end in sight. Down here they are a way of life, not a status symbol or accessory. It’s a demanding responsibility, absorbing hours of every day. Yet without them, the Borders would be unrecognisable, and forlorn. As would Hoolet. Italian towns have church bells to punctuate the hours; here we go by the clatter of hooves.