My father, William Jones was a Master Potter in Poole pottery in Dorset. He decided to set up his own pottery studio going back to his native Wales in the early 70s, and as such, I was brought up on a smallholding in the small seaside village of Saundersfoot in South Pembrokeshire from the age of 7.

During this time the mines in Wales were being wound down and later during Margaret Thatcher’s period in Government, the steel and coal mining industries were completely obliterated.

Where we lived, there was a vast history of coal mining and coal exports to Europe from Saundersfoot. In fact, the beach at Saundersfoot is comprised completely of sand bought in from French barges as ballast, offloaded and then replaced with coal. None of the sand on Saundersfoot beach is native and is most probably all French!

At this time my father brought home a pony called Fred. He was a little 11hh grey gelding, probably a section A and he was virtually blind. He had spent nearly all his adult life down a mine and rarely, if ever came to the surface. He was one of the last ponies employed to haul the coal trugs. We were never really sure how old he was. My father answered the call when the mines were closed and the ponies lives were under threat. The mine owners were told to destroy the ponies as they were considered unusable. Of course, he couldn’t let that happen, such a man that he was. He bought Fred home for me in the back of his transit van. He pulled up in the van which belonged to a local bakery. He had a part-time job delivering bread to supplement for income as it was hard times in those days. He proudly pulled up, opened the doors of the van and proudly presented this little pony who was happily munching at a French stick with white bread boxes piled around him. It was a sight I will never forget.

Fred proved to be the main reason that I have loved the Welsh pony and have since always been involved with them for most of my life. At 7 years old and essentially an only child (my older brother and sister staying in school in London) Fred was my companion and my best friend and we did just about everything together. As he could not see well, he relied on me to guide him and be his eyes. He could have a good gallop on the beach where it was flat and he could jump on command.

Nearly everything a normal pony could do with signals and voice commands. He could bow and would throw his feed bucket out of the stable. He hated his feet done and always disliked the farrier so much that he would bite his backside. He was such a character, an amiable and affectionate pony, and I adored him.

I went to college in 1980 and old Fred died one day while I was at college. Dad didn’t tell me until I came home as he didn’t want to upset me. He had a fitting end and died of old age lying in a meadow in the spring sunshine. We never knew exactly how old he was when he went to sleep.

Everything I do or achieve with my ponies is all thanks to Fred, I owe him so much.

He was always my friend and companion and one of the great loves of my life.