If Emily hasn’t woken us, Mary, our cocker, hops on to the bed for a little love before the day starts at 6.30am. Order of feeding is chickens, daughter, cat, dogs, horses.

I sometimes see to the horses in wellies and PJs, picking up poo, or they’ll get worms. Since we’ve had the stables, I’ve lost a stone walking up and down to sort out the horses.

Once a week a man comes with a tractor trailer and takes the manure up to the top field. We rent out land to a farmer for his sheep. They keep the grass down. Our chickens are Muffin, Sugar Pie, Honeysuckle, Pirate, Sheila, Cookie and Honor — as in on’er last legs. She’s a senior rescue chicken. But she won’t go into a pot. My breakfast is two of Muffin’s finest eggs, toast and Barry’s Irish Tea, which is hard to find in Dorset. I started drinking it when I lived in London and found it on the shelf at my local Greek grocer’s. Maisie the cat has a bit of tuna and dry biscuits. There’s always something in the Aga for the dogs — Mary, Tina and Arthur. Mary and Tina are both cockers; Arthur’s a labrador. Now I want a terrier. It would kill the rats. I’ve always had a passion for animals. What I didn’t see coming were the horses. Emily’s been riding since she was two, and I had to get one in order to share conversations with the rest of the family. Now we’ve built our stables, Philippa feels like she’s been given her own huge doll’s house.

One of us takes Emily to school in our unpopular Land Cruiser. Going up the back track saves 10 minutes, and you can only do it in a four-wheel drive.

Mid-morning I have a meaningful cup of espresso. We do the family shop at the Co-op in Beaminster or Tesco in Yeovil. What we spend on the animals is mental — and that’s before we’ve added in the farrier, who comes every six weeks. Chester is my horse. Philippa’s is called Bee. Emily’s pony, Saracen, is a Palomino Welsh Arab. We also have four miniature Shetlands. One of them, Hector, is a wayward little bugger. He won’t come unless he’s cornered. The other three are much easier to deal with.

If I’ve got meetings or am working on location, I’ll have a decent lunch. At home it’s usually just a sandwich. I don’t pine for London because I know I’ll always have a relationship with it. I frequently go up for the day. If I have to stay over, I use the Soho Hotel, which even if you’re paying for it yourself isn’t as expensive as having to run a home in London.

During the holidays all three of us ride in the morning; otherwise it’s just me, Philippa and Arthur. With 135 acres, we can stay on our own land, and sometimes we ride out to the sea, which is 16 miles away. Coming from a family of actors, I never saw myself as a landowner, but when this house was for sale in 2007 we sold everything — a house in Putney and a converted vicarage in Dorset — to buy it. I put in a studio in the cottage, where I record voiceovers down the ISDN line. I’ve had a wonderful year making documentaries, but I’m about to be Reginald Perrin in a remake of the series, which means working in London.

My clothes shopping is intensive hits in London. I buy a lot of repeats — three pairs of Ralph Lauren jeans in Harrods. I only ever get my hair cut in London, where a friend comes round to do it. In the country I basically just have hair.

Moving to Dorset wasn’t a giant leap. We’d had a place here for holidays and weekends. And when Emily started school we shifted our life, instigating a no-more-nannies policy. I’m hoping we’ll stay younger longer here.

We set up our own production company, Buffalo Pictures, making Doc Martin for ITV. It’s all done on location in Cornwall. We have a medical adviser on Doc Martin who talks me through procedures. I felt a real coming of age doing my first defib. On the whole, actors don’t want their hearts restarted by another actor, and it’s a challenge to pretend they’re dead or in a coma. I once played Mark Antony in Julius Caesar at the Open Air Theatre in Regent’s Park. During one very rainy performance, I was struggling on with Caesar’s body, plopped him down and did my stuff when an announcement came over the Tannoy: “Will the actors please leave the stage.” So Caesar got up, which kind of spoilt the magic.

Depending how much exercise they’ve had, and the calories they’ve burnt, the horses have a bit of supper. We feed the dogs and the cat, and one of us collects Emily. She doesn’t finish school until 5.15. Then it’s a matter of processing her for the night. We’ll cook something simple like cheesy pasta. Bedtime is 8pm, with stories. Emily and I are loving Dick King-Smith. We have supper when Emily’s in bed, with wine every other night. We’ve got out of the habit of watching TV. I listen on my iPod to programmes from Radio 4 and BBC7. It’s wonderful being out in the paddock listening to The Mystery of Edwin Drood.

We walk the dogs, then I shut in the chickens before bed. Often I just wander outside, marvelling at the night sky. By 10pm I’m knackered. I’ve been trying to read Atonement but nothing goes in. I go out like a light. If I’m lucky, I don’t dream. I don’t like dreams — I find them unclear and intrusive. I wish I didn’t have them, to be honest.

A Dog’s Life by Martin Clunes is published by Hodder & Stoughton on September 18

Interview by Sue Fox. Portrait by Mark Guthrie

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