One day last week I spent the best part of a hot afternoon with a horse's backside a couple of feet from my face.

It was part of a surprise trip organised by friends who reckoned The Mother and myself could do with some country air.

They didn't tell us we were going to the country, of course, otherwise it wouldn't have been a surprise. I guessed as much, however, when we were told to pack sandwiches, a Thermos of coffee (I also took a couple of gin mixers) and some insect repellent.

There is, to my mind, some perfectly good countryside in Sussex but my friends were obviously seeking pastures new. We ended up in Berkshire.

We drove into a pub car park but instead of heading inside for a drink, or several, The Mother and I were hustled to the rear.

"Surprise!" our friends chorused. Ahead of us lay a canal with families of ducks paddling lazily in the sun and squadrons of small biting insects hovering expectantly over the towpath.

"Very nice," said The Mother, "but I could murder a gin."

"And so you shall," said one of the friends. "I'll take you to the bar right now."

Much to The Mother's consternation, instead of turning back to the pub we headed towards a smart narrowboat.

"All aboard!" said our friend.

We joined half a dozen others sitting inside the long narrow cabin, dominated at one end by a bar.

"Where exactly are we going?" I asked.

"About two miles down to the next lock and back again," came the reply.

"This is very nice and peaceful," said The Mother. Indeed it was. Apart from the quacking of the ducks all we could hear was the lapping of the water.

All too good to last, of course. Suddenly we heard the sound of many loud voices from the towpath.

A coach party of pensioners had arrived. They clambered aboard and The Mother and I found ourselves pushed further along inside, away from the bar.

Pinned in by pensioners on either side, we could hardly turn our heads or move our feet. The bar was out of the question.

"I think we're moving now," said The Mother. "What can you see?"

The window in our tiny corner of the boat was shut and hazy with condensation. I stared out at a canal bank packed with various grasses and vegetation and saw . . . . a horse's backside.

The horse was pulling the narrowboat. Should I tell the Mother? She'd only want to join the animal, give it a helping hand. Still, I told her.

"It's all right. It's a very big, strong horse," I said.

The Mother scowled. "And there are a lot of very fat, heavy people on this boat," she said loudly. "I would never have come if I'd known about that poor horse."

There was only one thing for it. "Cheers!" I said and took her mind off the horse and the heat with one of the gin mixers.

For the next hour and a half we sweltered and sweated inside the boat.

"What can you see?" The Mother asked every ten minutes.

The answer was always the same: A horse's backside.

On our return, The Mother went to find out if the horse, which was nibbling grass at the side of the towpath, was fine.

"Where's she gone now?" asked a friend.

"I think you could say she's getting some information . . . straight from the horse's mouth," I replied.