Don’t be tempted to exaggerate your riding ability, as you’ll be given exactly the right steed. You’re given a test run on your mount before they let you loose – a fast, mad gallop across the sand in the shadow of the Horse Holiday Farm. Tucking my head into Astra’s thick chestnut mane, we thunder along the water’s edge at break-neck speed.

Drenched by spray and with the wind billowing my hair up in wild arcs behind me, I smile at my judges and get the nod of approval.

You’re talked through the route before you’re waved off and I take frantic notes about tides and busy roads. The route includes uphill climbs on isolated paths, sliding around on slime-covered mossy planks over treacherous bog
land, hours on deserted beaches and some solid time walking on country roads, allowing you and your horse to get your breath back.

Along the way you’re free to let your mind wander and soak up the countryside – the lush green fields with grazing highland cattle, buzzing forests, silver lakes covered in quiet birds, hedgerows humming with life and heavy with blackberries, full, rushing rivers and waterfalls twinkling in the fading light. All these elements inspired the famous Irish poet WB Yeats – who the trail is named after.

The whole experience is undeniably quiet, I barely pass another soul during the day. At night, however, the pubs fill with rampant music and live bands to bring you back to the real world with a whiskey-induced bump.
Most B&Bs offer dinner for an extra charge, but you aren’t obliged and can wander into villages to sample local life, which is worth the effort no matter how achy your limbs are.

As the days pass, the stresses of office and home seem aeons away and bumbling around smelling ever-so-slightly of
horse is a luxury. Even with my shocking sense of direction I manage to make it through the week without getting lost or having to make any emergency calls (you’re never more than 30 minutes from being collected if something goes wrong).

On my last night, I lie in my bed in a warm farmhouse in Sligo and feel my muscles desperately throb, unused to the rigours of hours in a saddle. My belly is full of traditional Irish fare and ruby red wine, and my ears hum with acoustic music from the local pub. Astra grazes happily under the moon with her glistening coat twitching against the chill. I sigh deeply, reliving walking, climbing, sliding, galloping, drinking and eating my way around some of the most breathtaking wild terrain I think I’ll ever see so close to home.