There’s a herd of chestnut ponies charging towards me. They’re being driven this way, out of the furze and towards the pound, by a team of riders. Whistles and whinnies ripple through the fast-moving group, and I feel the pounding of hooves in my chest. The only thing between me and them is a line of eight “walkers”. None of them flinch.
This seemingly chaotic scene is a regular occurrence in the New Forest. Each year, from mid-August to early November, pony roundups, called drifts, gallop through the national park. Unpredictable and dangerous, they’re off limits to the public, so being this close feels like I’m witnessing some old forest secret. Although I’m far enough away to avoid danger, I am close enough to see the browning bracken in their forelocks.
