Previously on Patrick's birthday, 2007 - this then 32-year-old horse had come to Canada with me in October, 1990, having been a house hold name in the United Kingdom on account of having been booked for speeding while being ridden (by me) in Richmond Park, Putney, London, U.K. At the time of the charges, the British (and Canadian) press picked up the story and made a huge fuss, having little else of interest to write about presumably, it being the end of the year, 1989. In the end, Patrick and owner (me) did not come to Canada to escape the long arm of the British law, for the issue had been won over two appearances in court (Patrick was not required to attend either), the second of which was held at the High Court in Kingstonupon Thames.

St. Patrick's Day is nearly here (next Monday) and I know that there are two things at the top of your thoughts - Guinness, and Patrick the horse. So, in honour of his 33rd birthday, I thought you might like to read about the Canadian instalment of his life so far.

He came to Canada by aeroplane, which is quite the normal way for even large animals like horses to travel. If you think about the internationally competitive horses that journey about the world to jump and race against each other, you will understand that they naturally are sent by air. It would be very hard (and, in some cases, probably fatal) on any animal to go those distances by ship. I cannot imagine how the horses of the conquistadors ever survived those ocean voyages to the New World. But I digress.

So, Patrick came by plane. He proceeded me here by about two weeks as I had business in Italy to see to before my own trip to Canada. It was very tense for us both, for he had to fly to New York before coming to Canada by truck and he has always disliked being transported anywhere, anytime.

Once he finally arrived to the stables I had found for him in Caledon, he was tired and nervous. I called the stables from Europe every day and they told me that he was not happy. I gave them all sorts of ideas of how to make him feel better but he was touchy the whole time.

Until I finally got here. The friend that met Patricia and me took us straight to the stables from the airport the day we landed. I knocked frantically on the door of the house, was greeted and taken immediately to the barn.

And there was Patrick and there was I. I never knew that horses can hug, but this pal of mine tucked me in under his chin and pulled me to him. I wrapped my arms around his neck and promised him that he had had his last flight. And he believed and forgave me.

I had brought his saddle with me. I tacked him up and he took me all around the fields where he had been living with those other horses. We saw the pond and the woods. After a bit, we went back to the barn, where I tucked him into his stall and brushed and fed him. We were so happy to be together again.

The next day, when I went back, the farm owner told me that she had never seen a horse change so dramatically. Patrick was so much calmer and happy she could hardly believe it was the same horse.

"He must love you very much," was her comment.

After a few weeks, I did move Patrick one more time to a barn closer to my new home, but it was the last time I ever asked him to accept going to a place that was too far to walk.

One of the first things about Canada that Patrick learned that really pleased him is that there are no speed limits for horses. They are allowed to dash along as fast as they like, while being ridden, and no one minds at all. We could dash along the sides of the roads and across the fields at full blast whenever we pleased, without a single glance over our shoulders.

On Monday, my dear old boy will turn 33 years old. He and I have been together for 27 years - my friends enjoy pointing out that that is my longest relationship. We have wandered with friends and on our own for hundreds of miles over the years, especially since we lived here in the Hockley Valley. Here there are long trails where riders are permitted to go.

I have never "competed" on him, never pulled rank on him, always conferred with him about which direction we would take when we were out; never expected him to take me out on a trail ride in inclement or very cold/hot weather.

The best part of our move to Canada for me has been taking care of him myself, rather than boarding him with others. Every day, twice a day, he is the best part of the day, with his greeting me at his door in the morning and at the gate in the afternoon.

He has fun bossing the other equines in our barn about and he loves the Shetland pony, Toby. He and Toby groom each other, Toby stretching to reach Patrick's neck and Patrick washing little Toby's back and mane. It is very funny to watch.

Although Patrick still has a serving of oats with every meal and the blacksmith still puts shoes on him, I no longer ride him. But as he puts his head down to me to rub gently against me, we reminisce about our many splendid rampages through the beautiful countryside of Hockley Valley and value every one of them.

So, on Monday, as you raise you glasses to toast the Saint, be sure your second salute is to the fabulous Patrick, the horse!