Everyone has their own Dublin Horse Show. For some the essence of the show is the thrill of watching the Nations Cup or the Puissance in the Main Arena. Others go to size up future stars among the young horses in Simmonscourt, or to see and be seen on Ladies’ Day.

A few years ago, I bumped into an old acquaintance from Tipperary who proudly told me he had never left the Long Bar for the entire week.

For me, the Dublin Horse Show means a few square yards of the Serpentine Hall, where every year some of the top equestrian artists in the country gather to showcase their work. Behind me the doors open to the picnic area and the Triple Bar, and beyond that a sliver of Ring 2 is visible, where I catch the odd glimpse of a show cob or working hunter cantering past.

My neighbours tend to be the same from one year to the next - English girl Sara Hodson across the aisle, bubbly Sarah Lennon on the left, Jason O’Ceannobháin to the right, the great Tony O’Connor occupying a long stretch of the back wall.

It is a source of never-ending fascination to me that we all start with a love of the same animal, but our work takes us in such different directions.

Kim Gaffney’s horses are ethereal, Jason O’Ceannobháin’s could hardly be more solid or real. Kate Furlong’s are winsome and charming, Tony O’Connor’s mysterious and Caravaggesque.

My hunters and thoroughbreds fling clods of Irish mud behind them as they cross the canvas, Sarah Lennon’s delicate arabs twist and plunge elusively amid bright streaks of paint. It is always fun to watch people back away from Sarah’s paintings step by step, turn their heads to one side, and slowly say, ‘Oh, yeah...’

'The Coloured Hunter' by Liam Clancy. Acrylic on watercolour paper. 26 x 18 inches

Abstract or photorealist, we are all present and ready to sell to the admiring public as the doors of the Serpentine Hall are flung open on the first morning of the 2024 Dublin Horse Show.

Wednesday

Wednesday is a day of settling in, dealing with lighting issues and temperamental credit card machines, catching up with fellow artists. There is a steady flow of people through my stand all day, but most of the sales I make, while welcome, are low end. Everyone at the Horse Show on Wednesday has a good reason to be there, and it is seldom to buy art.

By six o’clock the crowd has dwindled to almost nothing. We have eased out of sales mode and are gathered around the pillar which has become our unofficial meeting point, drinking pints and sipping white wine and wondering why we didn’t train as surgeons or investment bankers.

Thursday

Thursday is the first day of real business, and the consensus of opinion by the end of the day is that it has been an entirely satisfactory one. I spend an exhausting day being my brightest self to an unending stream of prominent figures in the sport horse world, old neighbours from Tipperary and current ones from Laois, people I hunted with in far-flung corners of the world, people who bought a packet of cards from me two years ago and who are obviously miffed that I don’t remember them.

'The youngster' by Sara Hodson. Oil on canvas 24 x 24 inches

Friday

Friday is Aga Khan day, and as expected, it starts with a bang. By five past nine, Jason is bubble-wrapping a painting with a pardonably triumphant air. There are swarms of people moving through the Serpentine Hall by lunchtime, and I make a couple of very pleasing sales. By the early afternoon they have all dispersed to the Main Arena, and the day ends on a somewhat disappointing note. As Sara Hodson and I agree, disappointment is hardly a novel sensation for most artists.

Saturday

Saturday is one of the big days of the Horse Show. By 7pm the Puissance is in full swing and the atmosphere in the showground is electric. Roars of excitement reach us from the Main Arena like the sound of distant surf. Nearer to hand, whoops of merriment and snatches of song float in the door from The Triple Bar.

Many of the art lovers who pass through are in a state referred to in legal circles as ‘not drunk, but having drink taken’. Jason has had an uncharacteristically quiet day, and is bemoaning the fact that he is missing the AC/DC concert in Croke Park.

To cheer him up, Sarah Lennon plays a bit of hard rock on her phone. Bemused passers-by are met with the spectacle of a trio of equestrian artists playing air guitar and fist-pumping to Thunderstruck.

'Deirfiúracha' by Kim Gaffney. Oil on canvas. 26 x 36 inches

Sunday

Sunday starts out quiet. We are all wrecked in any case. Sarah’s ever-present smile no longer quite reaches her eyes, and I am suffering dramatic mood swings. If left alone for more than 10 minutes crippling self-doubt begins to set in. The sale of a pack of cards for €7 has me high-fiving passers-by and shouting, ‘Who’s your Daddy!?’ at my fellow artists.

My wife arrives to take over the stand for an hour in the afternoon so that I can photograph the Ballymacad Hounds parading in the Main Arena for a forthcoming painting. Just to walk on the hallowed turf is surprisingly thrilling.

Getting out there is an adventure in itself, and involves sweet-talking my way past a series of bowler hatted individuals who behave as if keeping me out of the arena is a matter of national security.

A few nice little sales towards the very end of the day help to revive me and finish the week on a good note. As the day winds down, Jason and I agree that we would happily do it all again next week. Looking back after a few days of much-needed rest, I realise that may have been the adrenalin talking.