The first time I met the horses, they were stood in a field full of dandelions and hazel. I counted 99, all different in there own way, but somehow the same. One stood out, a chestnut gelding, with four white socks, around 13.2. As the sun dipped down bellow the sea, I knew it was time to go home, but the sight of the horses kept me on the spot. I wondered if they where wild or not. No, they couldn't be. There was some with scabs on there backs, and nots in there manes and tails. I wondered if maybe they needed someone to take care of them. And I also wondered if that person could be me.