I love fence judging. Watching an athletic horse soaring gracefully over an obstacle in partnership with the rider is a wonder of harmony and grace. But then, I dislike getting up very early to drive to the event, travelling for far too long down really boring motorways. On the other hand, I do enjoy the tea and a bacon butty on arrival and greeting the familiar faces who regularly volunteer, week in week out, over the eventing season. There is the characteristic scent of crushed damp grass as we hear all the same old jokes from the TA during the briefing. I enjoy the sense of anticipation as we call in on the radio check, fence by fence around the course, and confirm readiness for a 09.15 start. However, each day passes at different speeds. Some fly past, some lag and linger. From some fences one can see other jumps around the course, or it is an interesting question with 300 riders trying 350 ways to get over it, but other jumps are in a wood, round a bend, at the bottom of a hill and nothing happens all day. I love fence judging, but by early afternoon the pack lunch has been eaten, the tea wagon has not been around again and I am wondering just why I do. A horse coming past every two minutes, no breaks, relentless. It has been going on for hours already, with the prospect of many more to come. By six o’clock we are counting down the final horses, keen to get off home, but we can not pack up until the very last horse has gone past. It is a superstition. And then, once back in the briefing tent to return the paperwork, flags, radio, stopwatch and to grab a cuppa, I say, cheerfully, “See you all next time”. I do love fence judging.