Ulster says No: the pony who was not for turning

Ulster won't budge, which is a problem, he is the mischievous piebald pony we have rented along with a gypsy caravan for four nights. The four miles to Ballinaclash seemed infinitely feasible half an hour earlier as we tacked him up.

Eventually after some earnest cajoling he decides to plant one hoof precisely in front of the other and crawl down the hill – his hooves are about the span of your hand. At this pace we will be lucky to make camp before sundown day two.

Perhaps he is tired, the caravan must be heavy, replete with wooden kitchen, bunks and benches. At the first suitable lay-by we pull over, Ulster hangs his head in the resting position. I foolishly drape the reins over the rail.

No sooner have I clicked the half-door closed than Ulster has deftly turned the caravan 180 degrees – no mean feat on this narrow country road – and is bolting back up the hill, Ballybrit fervour as though pulling balsa wood. "Hike Ulster hike" – the apparent command for "stop" for ponies – falls on deaf furry ears. This isn't Ulster's first rodeo – he has been pulling tourists in Wicklow within a 20-mile radius of Rathdrum for years.

Terrified to let go of the reins, I lead him back down. Enormous drops of rain fall through the beech canopy, perhaps Ulster was trying to warn us. Rain trickles down my neck, Ulster is soaked, I am soaked and our dog is looking up at us absolutely baffled.

We pull over, there is just about enough daylight for tourists returning from Glendalough to stop to take pictures of us, we try to smile. As if the company who we hired Ulster and the caravan from have foreseen our plight in a crystal ball, a 4x4 whizzes around the corner, Ulster neighing in recognition. Within moments he is ensconced in the dry horse box and spirited away to Ballinaclash.

We, meanwhile, are left on the side of the road; we will be towed later. We crank up the stove, light the oil lamp and find dry clothes. Even the dog has cheered up.

At first light we awake to robust rocking of the caravan. Through a chink in the gingham curtains I see a field full of piebald ponies, several of whom are merrily using our hitch as a scratching post.

We were warned to unhitch but with the ignominy of our arrival by tow we were only too happy to close the caravan door behind us. Another morning we awoke to a braying donkey; his braying echoed and filled the Vale of Avoca.

Five days to the sound of methodical clip clopping, crockery jangling, you calibrate to a different frequency. Ballinaclash to Glenmalure is 15 minutes by car, a whole day with Ulster. We pop into farms to pick up produce, the blackberries you snatch from the hedgerows taste like nothing before and at night you lie back on the grass stargazing, warmth radiating from the campfire and close by the sound of Ulster chomping contentedly.

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