“Let’s go and say hello to Johnjo,” said Dave Harris, my companion for the day. I looked at Johnjo across the muddy field, and Johnjo looked at me. I was a trifle apprehensive, while Johnjo was, well, a horse. “Er, hi Johnjo,” I muttered, searching for a conversational gambit to open with. “Nice, er, paddock you’ve got here.” Dave laughed. “Now, you see, you’re forming a relationship with him.” Johnjo looked at me and yawned expansively. “He’s not bored, don’t worry,” said Dave, “it means he’s relaxed. It’s a good start.”

Budding horse whisperers have to start somewhere, and a field on the outskirts of Maidenhead is as good a place as any. Dave and I were brought together via swapaskill.com, a social networking website that launches properly next week and that aims to help people exchange favours and skills without exchanging hard cash: a refreshingly non-mercenary side of the internet economy. While it has become fashionable in certain strata of society for new acquaintances to suggest meeting up for a skill-swap, the internet gets a broader pool of people involved, allowing the practice to flourish; if you want to learn about the internal workings of your Ford Fiesta but can only offer artisan breadmaking techniques in return, finding the person you need without going online could a be long and ultimately fruitless experience. Dave Harris’s profile indicated that he was seeking music lessons in exchange for “horse whispering” and, as the accompanying photo featured him in full Americana – cowboy hat, cowboy boots – I got in touch and offered to teach him to play the musical saw, an arcane skill I have that is wheeled out for family amusement every Christmas. Dave seemed delighted at the prospect but, before I committed, I was keen on finding out what “horse whispering” actually meant. “To be honest,” said Dave, “I’m not exactly sure. It’s a convenient label for what I do, but I prefer to call it natural horsemanship.” Still none the wiser, and having never touched a horse or indeed enjoyed mutual understanding with any animal whatsoever, I entered into the spirit of the swap. A week later I was driving to Berkshire with a saw, a violin bow and a pair of wellies in the boot of the car.

Over a pre-swap cup of tea, Dave filled me in on how horses came to play such a big role in his life. “Six years ago I was the managing director of a software consultancy firm, but I felt that things weren’t right.” He quit his job to learn more about personal development and neurolinguistic programming; and it coincided with the purchase of a horse, Johnjo, for himself and his daughter. “When Johnjo arrived from Ireland he’d been in a horse-transporter for three days,” recounted Dave. “He was trying to kill people. When I’d failed to calm him down using aggression, I started to research non-confrontational ways of communicating with him.”

Dave realised that Johnjo’s mood was almost a barometer of his own, and he began pondering the possibility of combining life-coaching with horsemanship. He discovered that, in the US, such a thing had been practised by personal development instructors for years. He set up his own courses, and today his business, Acorns 2 Oaks, offers equine guided leadership development for businesses and individuals. “A horse isn’t impressed by someone earning half a million a year and driving a Merc,” said Dave, “but it does sense personalities very well.” After hearing the story, I confessed to feeling slightly concerned. “Apart from being generally riddled with anxiety,” I admitted, “I’m a bit scared of horses.” “That’s fine,” said Dave, “as long as you admit it. Tell the horse – you might be surprised at the response. You might experience a relationship with a horse today that people who’ve owned horses for 20 years haven’t had.”

Out in the paddock, we decided to focus on my anxiety. This wasn’t so much to do with the presence of Johnjo – with whom, over a series of exercises, I seemed to be getting along famously – but more a general, low-level anxiety that, for some reason, was making me feel particularly uncomfortable that morning. Dave went through a series of de-stressing techniques, which ended with my hands placed on Johnjo’s flank. I stood there for some minutes, feeling incredibly serene. “How are you feeling?” asked Dave. “Physically, very calm,” I replied, “although, annoyingly, I know that the mental side of it will probably kick back in at any moment.” Dave seemed unperturbed. “We can work on that,” he said, and at that moment – and I know this might make me seem like some hippy derelict – Johnjo walked in a circle around me and began to nuzzle my shoulder. I was taken aback. “It’s hard to be cynical when something like that happens,” I said to Dave, who smiled. “I’ll leave you two alone for a bit,” he said.

Pondering whether Johnjo had actually sensed my need for re-assurance would have to wait, however, as it was time to fulfil my side of the bargain and give Dave the benefit of my expertise on an Appalachian folk instrument. I cranked out an eerie version of “Wichita Lineman” on the saw by way of a demonstration, the handle clamped between my legs while I bowed at the non-toothed edge. “It’s an amazing sound,” said Dave enthusiastically, and within a few minutes I’d taught him the basic rudiments – while warning him that being able to play a recognisable tune can take weeks of practice which test the patience of your family to its limits. “I’ll bear that in mind,” he grinned, bowing animatedly.

Afterwards, over a bite at the local village pub, we discussed the skill swap experience, and in particular my concern that the skill that I’d brought to the table paled in comparison to his. “But the great thing about it,” said Dave, “is that the kind of people who want to skill-swap aren’t going to start complaining that they’re not getting enough out of the deal, or say that their time is worth twice yours. It’s about recognising each other’s talents, it’s about positive interaction.” So he didn’t feel cheated by my stumbling attempt at teaching him the saw? “Not at all,” he countered, “you have an amazing skill, there.” “But you would say that,” I said, “you’re in the business of personal development.” “I suppose so,” laughed Dave. “But I mean it, really.”