Striding forward, a spring in his step, George the Connemara pony carries me into a labyrinth cut into a field of teasels. The path winds, branches and splits. I let him choose the route, wondering how innate his animal sense of direction might be.
We soon reach a dead end and must turn. After 10 minutes or so, he is less confident and rather slower. I intervene a little, suggesting a right turn, fearing we might otherwise be lost for ever. Again, we hit a dead end.
