A happy day. Or, Warne and Silviniaco Conti make me smile.

A rather profound and emotional morning at HorseBack UK. Sometimes there I hear stories which contain so much despair that I feel them moving me physically, as if the very atoms of my body are reconfiguring themselves.

I did all my work and then took the afternoon off for quite a different kind of emotion, as the National Hunt season threw its last hurrah at Aintree. So many of the horses I have loved were there, so many I have followed through the season, as they were up and as they were down, as they found fortune and as they met none.

I won a little and lost a little, but funnily enough the two horses who gave me the most pleasure were ones in which I only had a tiny financial interest. It was all a love thing, for very different reasons.

Silviniaco Conti is one of the most professional horses in training. I’ve always admired him more than loved him. Today, he was coming off the back of a tough race in the Gold Cup, and I thought he could not possibly bounce back in time. I had a little placepot money on him, but more for old times’ sake than anything.

He set off joyfully, bowling along in front, ears pricked, as if that gruelling run round Cheltenham was three months ago instead of three weeks.

Coming into the final stages, he started wandering about a bit. Ah, I thought, he’s tired; he’s going to pack up. But he did not pack up. His exceptional jockey, Noel Fehily, got him organised again, and the brave fella responded with honesty and guts. They were coming for him, but he would not be denied. It was a performance of pure heart, and suddenly I did not just admire him, but fell finally in love. Class and talent thrill me, but it is the bravery that moves me, and this was as brave as you will see on a racecourse.

Then, there was a different kind of being moved. In the Foxhunters’, the big race for amateurs over the National fences, there was the hot favourite, Mossey Joe, and then there was Warne, ridden by Sam Waley-Cohen. I thought Mossey Joe was nailed on, going by the book, but I had a little bit each-way on Warne for fun.

Sam Waley-Cohen is a really interesting man. He’s won the Gold Cup, the King George, and has a record round Aintree that most professionals would envy, but he is a constant Aunt Sally for armchair jockeys. These keyboard warriors, who almost certainly have never sat on a half-ton flight animal going over massive obstacles at thirty miles an hour, disobligingly insist, every time a Waley-Cohen horse is beaten, that it would have hosed up if only ‘the dentist’ had not been on board. (Waley-Cohen runs a dentistry business.)

Warne galloped off in front, having a delightful time. His jockey got him into a lovely rhythm, and saw a fine stride into each fence. Then it started getting complicated. Loose horses began charging about, rather excited to have got rid of their own jocks, and Warne had to weave in and out of them, and keep his concentration. It’s hard enough to win a race like this from the front, let alone when there are rogue animals cavorting about you. But Waley-Cohen kept his cool, judged the pace perfectly, gave his boy a breather when he needed it, plotted a true course, and won going away.

I’ve never met Sam Waley-Cohen and I know little about him. He is always very modest and polite and smiling in interviews, and I have no idea why people on the internet are so unkind about him. The most touching thing about him is that he rides with his brother’s name stitched into his saddle. His brother died, ten years ago, at the age of twenty. I’ve heard him say ‘Thomas lives and rides with me’. Even more touchingly, the trophy he won today had been donated by his family in memory of that brother.

It’s been a season of highs and lows, of dreams and reality, of hearts lifted and broken. There have been some mighty performances and some thrilling races. I’ve shouted myself hoarse and thrown all my hats in the air in wild triumph. But for the sheer spirit of the sport, for the humanity of it and the heart, I think perhaps that moment was the most moving.

Apart from anything else, it was a truly glorious ride, horse and jockey in perfect harmony, that old Corinthian flag flying.

I hope that today of all days, the doubters and the knockers might give Sam Waley-Cohen his due. He deserves it.

 

Too tired now for pictures.

Just one of my glorious red girl, mooching about under the trees, very happy indeed that she no longer has to gallop round a racecourse, fruitlessly trying to pretend that it was where she belonged. Everyone has their talent, and hers is mooching. She is world class at it, as you can see:

The mighty heart of Hello Bud

 
‘I just can’t tell you how much I love this horse.’ Sam Twiston-Davies, of Hello Bud.
 
One of the things I love about racing is its vocabulary. There is an entire lexicon of mysterious phrases which must seem impenetrable to the casual viewer. Then there are the straightforward words which may confuse. A great compliment paid to racehorses is that they are honest. What can this mean? That the animal will not cheat you at cards, or run off with your savings? That its word is its bond? What can honesty indicate when applied to a flight animal?

In a way, a horse is only as good as its human. People say that equines are a perfect mirror of their owner. And it is true that they will give you back exactly what you put in. At the same time, they do have their intrinsic characters. There are fragile, sensitive ones, and fiery, confident ones. There are dreamy, idle ones and intelligent, questing ones; there are brave ones and comical ones. Some are independent and self-contained as cat, others adore affection.

Some almost appear to have an acute sense of their own brilliance. This is what my mother calls the look of eagles, when the champions lift their heads and survey their kingdoms. Kauto Star had it, and Arkle, and Desert Orchid, and Frankel; Sprinter Sacre had it yesterday. They seem to know they are emperors.

Honesty, in a horse, is a sort of true straightforwardness. They do not look to left nor right; they are not thinking of alternatives. You ask them to do something, and they do it, with all their good hearts.

One of the most honest horses in training is a wonderful old veteran called Hello Bud. He is a glorious jumper, and his speciality is leaping round over the vast Aintree fences. He does not know how to run a bad race.

He has been ridden by Sam Twiston-Davies since the jockey was still a schoolboy amateur, and they have a glorious and rather touching partnership. Twiston-Davies is twenty now, just at the beginning of what will surely be a glittering career, and dear Hello Bud is fourteen and is cantering into the twilight of his competitive life. Soon, it will be time for him to go out in the field, where the roar of the crowd shall be a distant memory.

I adore him because he jumps like a stag, because he always tries his heart out, because he has such enthusiasm and verve, and because he has that shining honesty, written all over his lovely bay face.

Yesterday was the Becher Chase, over the big Grand National fences. A strong field of class horses was lined up, some of them half the age of Hello Bud. But I always back him, out of sheer love, and so I did again, a tiny bit each-way at 14-1.

I pride myself, absurdly, on my rational mind and my empiricism, but even I cannot resist magical thinking, every once in a while. In my irrational mind, it would be sheer bad manners not to have money on that great journeyman, who has given me so much joy. I could not quite see him winning, but I did think he would hunt round, foot-perfect as always, and if one or two made a mistake, he might run into a place.

Off they set. Hello Bud, under a lovely, quiet ride from Sam Twiston-Davies, was indeed hunting round, jumping from fence to fence, ears pricked, seeing a perfect stride every time. He was up with the pace, bowling along as if he were a young fella, having a ball. This could easily be his last race, and the dancing pleasure of watching him stream over those huge fences was delight enough, whatever the result.

He is not a flashy jumper. He does not make vast, vaunting leaps. What he does, which is so lovely to watch, is measure each fence perfectly; he flows over the great obstacles, never deviating, rarely having to put in a short stride. It is almost as if he and the fences are one, built ideally for each other. Twiston-Davies is intelligent enough and confident enough to let the horse find his own sturdy rhythm; he does not hassle the old fella, or push him into his jumps. ‘He’s cleverer than I am,’ he said, after the race.

As the race entered its final stages, I kept thinking Hello Bud would run out of petrol. The younger legs would surely rush past him; age would take its toll. But there he was, still up at the front, in a glorious, rolling rhythm, finding a little bit more with each brave stride.

He met the last perfectly, and then there was the long, soul-sapping run-in, the awful sward of green where so many dreams are shattered. Five good horses were coming at Hello Bud, snapping at the old heels, their jockeys crouched low for a late charge.

‘I was almost crying,’ said Sam Twiston-Davies afterwards, talking to Jim McGrath. ‘I wouldn’t be one for shouting, but I was roaring at him all the way up the run-in. I could hear everyone coming at me and all the crowd. Look how tough he is, he just keeps sticking his head out.’

Oh, you old beauty, I thought. Hold on, hold on. I was on my feet at this stage, also roaring. I have never met Sam Twiston-Davies in my life, but I was yelling ‘COME ON SAM’ at full volume.

The commentator was screaming; Stanley the dog, who has not witnessed Saturday racing mania before, was barking his head off. The young legs of the chasing pack were rattling down the straight in a cavalry charge, each horse finishing like a freight train, catching Hello Bud with every yard.

‘GO ON MY SON,’ I bellowed.

Hello Bud put his dear old head down, and did not stop. He drew on every inch of his mighty racing heart. This was his moment of glory, and he would not be denied, not by youth, not by class, not by anything.

He kept galloping, gallant and true, and he flashed past the post, the winner by a neck.

Aintree exploded with joy. Twitter exploded with joy. I exploded with joy. I’m afraid to say there were tears streaming down my face.

I’ve seen a lot of glorious things in racing. I used to go and watch the imperious Desert Orchid at Sandown and Kempton. I still think of that sunny day at York when I watched Frankel take apart a top class field for fun. I’ve seen the wonder that was Master-Minded in his pomp, and the doughty courage of Dawn Run, and the fine brilliance of Kauto Star.

But for sheer, heart-lifting joy, I’m not sure I ever saw anything so wonderful as Hello Bud winning the Becher Chase at the age of fourteen. I think that one will go down in the annals, carved forever into the granite halls of fame.

‘I can’t even explain what this horse means to me,’ said Sam Twiston-Davies, afterwards.

There are horses that you may admire. You may be thrilled by their raw talent, their diamond brilliance. There are horses who are so good at what they do they leave you in awe. And then there are the horses with whom you fall helplessly in love. Often, funnily enough, they are not the very best. They do not stalk the land in a shining armour of perfection. They do not have unbeaten records. They are not untouchable.

What they have is a refusal to give up, that lovely honest willingness to offer their all, whatever the conditions, whatever the opposition, to keep coming back even when it seems hopeless. They are the bravehearts of the racing world, filled with courage and grace. Sometimes they will win not because they are the best, not because they have the finest form in the book, not because of stellar bloodlines or perfect pedigrees. They win on guts and heart and love of the game.

Hello Bud is such a horse.

Dick Francis once wrote that you can't expect fairy tales in racing. But yesterday felt like a fairy tale to me.
 
Today’s pictures:







The little herd, in a rare moment of sun:

Myfanwy the Pony, who seems to think she has turned into a princess:

Red the Mare, all soft and dopey in her winter gear:

With Stanley the Lurcher, who is still slightly uncertain about what he clearly regards as ABSOLUTELY ENORMOUS DOGS:

The amber eyes:

The hill, from yesterday:


I would so like to put up a picture of Hello Bud and Sam Twiston-Davies, but my friend The Classicist, who works for Getty Images, has given me a stern warning about copyright. ‘Even if I give all the proper attributions?’ I pleaded. But he gave me the serious look he has been giving me since I was eighteen. He is a man of strict moral compass, and I must be guided by him. Those racing photographers work hard for their living, and I cannot just be pinching their pictures for free. I would be furious if people were reproducing my professional work without asking, so I cannot have my cake and eat it.

So, if you would like to see the hero in action, you can see him here:
http://www.sportinglife.com/racing/report/538979/hello-bud-defies-rising-years-to-win-becher
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sport/racing/article-2245119/Veteran-Hello-Bud-tales-Aintrees-Becher-Chase-second-time.html

Or just google SHEER GLORIOUSNESS.

Triumph and tragedy; a quick digest.

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Strange day of mixed emotions. (Perhaps emotions always are mixed, and we humans just make a mistake in thinking they ever might be one pure thing or another.) Anyway, a very quick digest for you, because it is late and I am tired:

Love and affection for my horse.

Astonishment at the cold. Turning to bafflement at the snow.

High excitement as the thought of the day’s racing settled in. Despite reservations about the Grand National being such a strange and freakish race, the blood started to rise.

Talked to mother, talked to brother, discussed form.

Had a lovely time on Twitter, boring everyone with horse talk.

Concentrated hard on Racing Post.

Had the sheer, unadulterated pleasure of watching Simonsig and Sprinter Sacre, two of the best young horses I’ve ever seen, canter home, so full of beauty and belief that it was blinding.

My venal side was very pleased that I won rather a lot of money, especially when the third in my treble came in, and Oscar Whisky completed the party.

Suddenly panicked that the sister was about to arrive and the house was a detritus of betting guides and horse treats. Tidied up. Arranged flowers, even. Felt slightly saintly.

Joyful when the sister did arrive and noticed and appreciated.

She said, as the warm-up to the race began: ‘I thought today of Dad and how brave he was.’ He rode in the National a few times, never got farther than the third. We gave his memory a moment’s silence.

Usual thing in race – can’t bear the falls, can’t bear the cavalry charge, but am thrilled by watching the ones who really take to it, or love it already, like dear old Hello Bud, aged fourteen, who hunted round for fun under his nineteen-year-old jockey. (He finished an honourable seventh, which is remarkable, considering his age, and looked like he was loving every minute of it.)

And then the finish. For a lovely moment, we thought the wonderful Katie Walsh might do it on Seabass, but he couldn’t quite see it out, although he jumped beautifully and ran like a Trojan. We shouted for her, until her race was run, and then the marvellous Neptune Collonges won it on the nod, simply refusing to be beat.

Joy for the brave grey horse, giving Paul Nicholls his first win in the race. Joy for the young Irish jockey, Daryl Jacob, who cried tears of delight in his post-race interview.

And then the swoop of sorrow and regret as it was reported that both Synchronised and According to Pete had to be put down. I mourn dear old Synchronised, with his great white donkey face, who battled up the hill at Cheltenham to win the Gold Cup, rather against the odds, through sheer grit and perseverance.

According to Pete also had a big old white face, and was bred in Yorkshire by Peter Nelson, who runs a small newsagent; he said, of the horse, ‘And when you watch him bowling along, he's such a fine sight, seems to love doing it. He always has his ears pricked and you'd swear he has a smile on his face.’ He was a real journeyman of a horse, and he is a great loss.

Rather melancholy, as the evening fell, thinking of these fallen stars, I went up to see my own mare. She was ambly and goofy and present and real; she nudged me with affection and rested her head on my shoulder.

Horses do make and break your heart.

 

Photographs of the day.

Garden:

Red the Mare:

Her view:

The Pigeon. Are you going to play with this ball or what?:

I think it went over there:

Hill:

New shoes

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

After yesterday’s absurd length, I should like to give you some pith. It is the least you deserve.

The big news in my tiny world is that the farrier came. He is a man of great talent and decency. His father was a farrier and his grandfather a blacksmith with his own smithy. He put such a set of shoes on my mare. The tiny great-nieces and nephew came out to watch, their eyes wide as saucers as the hot shoes hissed and smoked. ‘See,’ said my friend M to the children, as the farrier got out his rasp, ‘she’s having a manicure.’

The mare stood like a statue throughout, and dozed a bit with her head on my chest. I felt very proud of her.

There was more racing today, some surprises, some wonderful horses. I shouted and roared and gave back to Mr William Hill some of the money I took off him yesterday. Suddenly, after the last, as the adrenaline ebbed, I thought fiercely of my father and wished that he were here. I always think of him at Grand National time, and this is the first year he will not be here to see it. It is amazing to me how deep the knife plunges into the heart at this thought.

I go up to see Red. She does not think of life or death, but whether I have carrots in my pockets. Luckily, I have. She ambles towards me, and then follows me back to the gate without a headcollar. This is new, and she’s done it a couple of times now, and it makes me feel as if I have won something, a prize or a lottery. It’s such a very small thing, and so very potent.

I give her the carrots in reward. She can be a bit duchessy, I have discovered. She is not that keen on crunching things, so I cut the carrots up into small, delicate pieces, which she graciously accepts. Then we commune for a bit, as a faint evening sun suffuses the far mountains. That’s better, I think; that’s all right.

Tomorrow is the National. I love it and hate it. Part of me thinks it is the greatest show on earth, and when horses take to those fences, they really do take to them. A fellow called Always Waining ran in the Topham today, which is a shorter race than the National, but over the same fences. He wins absolutely nothing on any other track, looks like a real old second-rater; then he comes to Aintree, takes one look at those fences, and turns himself into a superstar. He’s the first horse to win that race three years in a row, and even though I had not a penny on him, I cheered him home, it was such a splendid sight.

The other part of me thinks the whole thing is a freak show and yearns for a nice sensible steeplechase over normal fences and a normal distance.

But then, perhaps there is nothing that normal about any kind of race.

The main thing is that first thing, before anything else, I shall take my own little champion out in her new shoes.

 

Today's pictures:

Pigeon:

Red:

And two panoramas – of Red's view:

And the hill: