Port Meadow is paradise. Well, so a recent Facebook entry read. It’s also a Site of Special Scientific Interest on account of its Iron Age burial area and, in fair weather, a favourite weekend and evening walk.

In these late spring days, when the flood plain dances with yellow buttercups, and every part of the 440 acres is accessible to walkers, it seems an age ago that it was virtually under water.

Walking through the sunny streets of Summertown at the weekend, exploring ArtsWeeks, I saw a painting of horses on Port Meadow. It evoked the bright light and clear skies of winter on the Meadow, yet there was something odd: the horses were grazing unusually close together.

I asked the artist, Francesca Shakespeare, about the scene.

“There was water everywhere. The horses were completely cut off from the rest of the meadow, marooned at the Wolvercote end. There was only a small amount of grass available. They were perched on it, all together.

“I spent the day painting, sitting on a stone. I was almost thrown off by a large nose reaching for my paints. They’re pretty scary up close, when you’re sitting down. I had to hold my nerve,” Shakespeare said.

She showed me a photograph taken at the time. There it was: a huge black shadow looming over her canvas. Another showed a sizeable jaw of yellowing teeth and tongue lolling in a hungry gurn.

At around the same time, driving through Wolvercote towards Woodstock Road, I pulled in to look at the horses. I admired their thick white winter coats patterned with black spots and blotches – Appaloosa in there somewhere with Piebald, and a touch of Cob. They were scattered, close to the road, on small islands of grass. Between ran water, of indeterminate depth.

An elderly lady wearing a backpack and wellington boots gave me a cheery greeting as she strolled down the pavement from the bridge. She opened the gate in front of me, and to my astonishment, began to wade out towards the horses. They raised their heads at the sight of her and stood watching.

As she approached the first island of grass, she took off her rucksack. Out of it she drew handfuls of hay. She then scanned the horizon for the other horses, and plunged into the water.

The horses she’d just fed followed her. Sometimes the water touched the horses’ bellies. Still the lady waded on, placing handfuls of hay at intervals on the grass hillocks, as far apart as possible, to prevent biting and kicking among her animals and possible injuries.

It was cold, bleak and close to snow. Yet in that moment, the warmth and care of the elderly lady, and the devotion of her horses was a revelation. It happened in a landscape which I had all too often taken for granted, as a casual arrangement between nature and beasts.