I've not sat on a Horse in three months, and I'm not sure I've ever missed anything more (at least not since I lived in Tanzania on my gap year, and spent nine long months dreaming solidly of cheese).

Comparatively, it seems such a short time and yet my legs and bum and nose and brain and heart are crying out for it. But when you're six and a half months pregnant, much like unpasteurised cheese and a good, strong gin and tonic, riding is one of life's forbidden fruits.

Admittedly, I didn't give up as soon as I found out I was pregnant. But having checked with the GP whose advice was that “until there's a bump, you're probably fine,” I carried on with hacking and lessons, and a couple of days' hunting this side of Christmas. I found enormous solace in the online fora of Horse and Hound where answers to the question “did you continue riding while you were pregnant?” included numerous laissez-faire references to Zara Phillips (who rode until she was four months pregnant) and Mary King (winning European eventing gold at five and half), and one hardcore to the point of serious hero-worship, “yes, but only until the contractions got too distracting in the saddle.”

But, as keen as I was to keep going, there were a few moments including one very fast canter down a hill directly on the heels of the Master as one of a field of five in the twilight of a cold January Saturday, when I wondered whether I might not be tempting Fate just slightly. Back in a sprawling farmhouse kitchen once dark had settled, over an improperly delicious round of egg sandwiches and steaming hot mugs of strong tea, I got talking to the exceedingly no-nonsense Hunt Secretary who said that she'd stepped out of the saddle as soon as she found out she was pregnant. Suddenly I wondered whether I'd perhaps been very lucky up until that point and that it might be time to hang up the hat for a while.

Which wasn't too tricky when we were living in London, and the January rain was beating down on the windows. But now we're in the Home County, where the yard is five minutes' drive, the fields are green and lush, and the high summer promise of stubble fields is tantalising. I can practically smell the crushed grass and feel the launch into gallop as I stare doe-eyed out of the train window every morning. It's got to the point where the ache is almost physical, and I'm tempted to head to the yard – to bury my face in a warm, horsey neck; to stand next to Delilah in her stable, and breathe in leather and sweat.

I can't. I mean, I could, but once I was standing in front of a horse, I'm not sure I would have the willpower not to haul myself and Small up into the saddle and disappear into the springtime.

So I've made a pact with myself. There'll be no riding now, nor for the next couple of months. But, body and mind allowing, I'll let myself back on a horse at the end of the year while I'm on maternity leave for some gentle pootling around, working up to being a semi-competent rider again with a view to being back on the hunting field in the New Year.

Knowing that I've got something like that in the back of my mind, something just for myself, while selfish, reminds me that I'm not just pregnant: I'm still the person I was – and she's someone I want to keep hold of as much as I can, not someone who's been lost because she's taken on motherhood too. And by reminding myself I'm still that person, I'll be a happier, healthier parent. If that comes with being a horsier parent, so be it.