I’M NOT the jealous type. Maybe the grass is greener on the other side but I’m quite comfortable with the crazy paving on which I stand. For one thing, it’s a damn sight lighter on the mowing.

Not to say I’ve grown complacent; these laurels haven’t seen rest since the Garden Festival of 88. But the lushness of my neighbour’s lawn prompts only applause from me. Sure, I can see how its splendour could reflect badly on my life’s weeds but I prefer to remember that the soil is exactly the same on this side of the fence so, if they can grow it, surely so can I, right?

Sometimes though even this well-meaning monster’s eyes tinge a little green and, for this week’s adventure, I left the tarmac to see how the grassy half live – and, lord, was it worth the deadly sinning.

Scottish Borders Vaulting (SBV) was established in 2006 as one mother and daughter’s response to that overwhelming need to make equestrianism in Ancrum just that little bit more dangerous. Founders, Helen and Ann Rogerson, had long since been involved in the equine sport, since, as a gutsy eight year-old, Ann joined the nearest vaulting team and quickly earned her stripes as an international competitor atop her horse, Zigourney. Recognising the benefits of the pursuit to co-ordination, motor skills and confidence in her own offspring, Helen set up SBV to bring the spoils of vaulting to the young people closer to home. And spoil them she did, with sessions for all ages and abilities, competing up to international levels, and reaching a total of 35 participants at the club’s height.

Now, the seven squad members train weekly with the kind of enthusiasm normally reserved for cake and e-numbers, and treat their eighth member – the 17.1 hands thoroughbred Cosmic Colours, otherwise known as Oscar – like a tall, slightly hairy, one of their own. I met Oscar for the first time on a Tuesday evening at the Border Group Riding for the Disabled School in Monteviot, where several sprightly youngsters in more sparkle than a night at Eurovision, eagerly awaited their turn to stand on, hang from, or jump off his strong back. If you haven’t witnessed the offence of vaulting before, picture floor gymnastics, then imagine a floor that moves and shakes and sometimes isn’t quite where you thought you'd left it.

Having never ran into a horse before, let alone trusted my weight to one’s good nature, I wasn’t entirely sure how to approach the situation. Soon, I was channelling the Duke and ready to don some chaps and yee-haa my way across the prairie. First though, there was warm-up. But really, did the Lone Ranger suffer the indignity of squats before every ride out?

Wearing a pair of borrowed dance slippers and a smile that convinced no-one, I plodded laps of the large, sand-based barn, trying not to fixate on the vaulting barrels that had somehow appeared in my peripheral vision.

I’ll admit I wasn’t feeling confident: lies stick in the throat and I’m prone to tonsillitis. But when the next activity was announced as “warming up the horse”, I was fairly certain my involvement would be minimal. Like the Titanic, I was sadly misguided. As Helen led Oscar to the arena’s centre, the vaulters lined up in height order, from four-year-old Eva, at one end, to her aunt Kellie at the other. Well, teen Zoe was actually tallest but aunts have to stick together, especially when the Lollipop Guild is under threat.

Oscar began to walk slowly around a circular path, tethered to a long lunge line, with Helen as his central anchor. Helen doesn’t so much whisper to her horse, as somehow think loudly at him. With a whip that could tame an ocean, but which never actually touches the animal, she directs Oscar’s speed and movement. One by one, the vaulters joined Helen in the middle, then ran the length of the lunge line rope to grab the handle attached to Oscar’s ever-travelling body. Easy, of course, but factor in the finish line moving ever forward and my complete lack of spatial awareness and you’ve got yourself a Benny Hill sketch in the making.

While Helen instructed the vaulters on the specific moves they would each be practising, I followed my coach for the evening, Hannah, to the static option, blushing appropriately as she helped me on to the barrel. Out of the corner of my terror, I spotted 12-year-old Amelie jumping on to the cantering horse like an elvenking, and, while I couldn’t tell who she was challenging at Twister, before a lap of the floor was through I was pretty sure she was winning. For someone who struggles to move between sitting and not without a tea break and a supporting cast, to watch someone made, presumably, of the same stuff as I am, manoeuvre so elegantly with all the stability of custard underfoot, was all kinds of impressive. The dismount was a thing of beauty, and the beast slowed effortlessly to a halt, to welcome its next guest, Eva.

As the four-year-old and her doting aunt showed exactly what was possible with a shared blood line and a lot of guts, I tried to recreate their courage, without all that pesky forward momentum. But Helen’s plans for me didn’t stop at rolling on the barrel and soon, wishing I’d paid more attention to those Bonanza reruns, I was being boosted on to Oscar’s back with both Zoe and Kellie for scaffolding. Surprised by how stable I felt, it wasn’t long before I could leave the relative safety of my backside and clamber gracelessly to my knees. With Kellie’s help I even managed to rise to what might have been recognisable, with a sympathetic squint, as a standing position.

And it felt amazing. Maybe Oscar had never moved so slowly in his nine years, maybe vaulting didn’t have a term for the stance that I had adopted, but I was somewhere between pride and its fall, and the feeling was a hard one to beat. By the time I prepared for my next endeavour, I was sweating from places I wasn’t even sure had glands. Somehow though, with Zoe bracing us both, I hopped on to Kellie’s back, and we three rode a horse around that barn like no evolutionary process ever intended.

I can’t describe the feeling that goes along with such wind-in-your-hair, horse-under-your-feet action, but if I was forced by my job description, I guess I wouldn’t be far off with euphoric. Once back on the only sand I’ve ever enjoyed between my toes, I began to fathom exactly what I’d just attempted, but even then I’m not sure my neural pathways were quite up to the task.

The night ended in the way all decent nights should: with a good, old-fashioned horse-thanking. Somewhere, Oscar’s dentist intuitively bought a new yacht, as we treated the patient pony to polo mints and pats in gratitude.

I can’t imagine I’ll ever make a vaulter – I don’t have the composite parts or instinct – and I’ll always be a little envious of those who do. Their grass is just that bit greener than my own. But then, I could never grudge Oscar the victory in that particular turf war.