The Royal Meeting.

In the end, because I gave myself permission not to write the blog, I wanted to write the blog. I am stupidly cussed.

I was thinking, as I rode this morning, getting the mare to do her dowager duchess dressage diva schtick, which she eventually did after some persuasion, about the things about Ascot that I shall miss and those I shan’t.

In the very old days, I used to see my father in the Irish Bar, usually with a tall elegant gentleman whom he would introduce as ‘my friend Bill.’ My friend Bill, charming, very funny, dry as a bone, and so self-deprecating it was as if he had done a course, turned out to be a man of some distinction. I only discovered much later that he had fought with the Royal Hussars in the Second World War.

Eventually Dad turned against Ascot. He grew tired of the hats and the heels and the cocktail party crowds, and he lost so much money there each year that he said it was cheaper to go on holiday, so he would firmly take himself off abroad.

For a long time, I agreed with him. Pushing through crowds who are all looking the wrong way (at each other rather than at the horses) became rather dispiriting. There is a yahoo element that is a little bit sad. But however crowded it becomes, however many absurd tottery shoes there are, and self-parodying braying hoorahs, and people who don’t know a pastern from a hock, through it all runs the enduring element: the finest thoroughbreds in the world. So I went back.

I had forgotten how beautiful Ascot was. The new stand is perfectly hideous, but it is well-laid out and convenient, and it cannot take away from that ravishing emerald sward that opens up in front of it like a history book. The history lives, out on that storied course. It was Queen Anne who started the Royal Meeting, because she wanted something nice and close to Windsor, and it is from Windsor that our own dear Queen comes, trotting down the straight mile in her open carriage with her match greys, an elegant echo of her ancestress. A band, usually someone like the Welsh Guards, strikes up, and all the gentlemen take their top hats off and wave them, with old school courtesy, at their monarch. I understand perfectly well all the arguments against a hereditary monarchy, in this day and age, but when I see that, I get chills up my spine, and I love the Queen and all who sail in her. No race meeting in the world has such a beginning.

Up where the old paddock was, there is now the pre-parade ring, a gentle calm before the storm, with ancient trees and quiet grass, and a perfect hidden place right at the end where one can observe the dazzling athletes, walking round like old dressage horses, before they are saddled. It’s as hushed as a church service, and the only time I’ve seen it mobbed was when Black Caviar flew over from Australia, and every single trainer, even the jumps boys, poured into the place to catch a glimpse of the super-mare. In my secret spot, away from the crowds, there is usually just me and another reminder of the old Ascot, a lady of venerable age and immense chic (and sensible shoes), with whom I made friends, both of us being wild about the fillies.

I can’t go this year, and I shall miss that moment of communion in the pre-parade ring, the extraordinary privilege of getting up close to that much equine beauty and talent. Television can’t quite capture the full majesty of the thoroughbred; it’s as if half a dimension is missing. Frankel, who brought me back to Ascot for his rampaging Queen Anne victory, was much more fine and delicate and handsome in life than he was in front of the cameras. It sounds odd, but there’s something too about getting the smell of them, and seeing the relationship they have with their lads and lasses, and being able to look into their deep eyes.

I’ll miss the wild roar that starts when a favourite hits the front and starts to motor, a soaring, swelling sound, so visceral that it runs right through your body, so overwhelming that it brings on magical thinking. In that Frankel Queen Anne, I quite genuinely wondered whether the roof would come off the stands.

I’ll miss running into my racing friends. I like seeing George Baker, with whom I used to go and watch Desert Orchid when we were in our raw twenties. He loved racing so much that he chucked in a perfectly respectable job and took out a training licence. When I see him, he twinkles at me, all those old memories still alive, and says, with some amazement: ‘I’m living the dream.’ I’ll miss going to see the horses with James and Jacko Fanshawe. James Fanshawe is not a trainer that many people outside racing have ever heard of, he is so modest and low-key, but he’s a flat specialist who has won two Champion Hurdles. Most National Hunt trainers have not won one Champion Hurdle, so for a flat trainer to win two is something out of the common. He’s a horseman to his bones, and watching him assess a young sprinter is one of my all-time great pleasures. (His brother sold me the red mare, so the Fanshawe family is very, very high in my hall of fame.)

I won’t miss the frantic dash to the train and the panicky picking up of the tickets and the failure to find a seat and the rather tiring uphill walk to the course. I won’t miss the crowds and the queuing and having to canter my way through the throng in my sensible boots to see my equine heroines and heroes, and getting stuck with a dead bore just when I want to go and see a Best Beloved in the paddock. I’ll miss my sneaky half pints of ice-cold Guinness and making friends with the random American military gentlemen who seem to favour the Guinness bar. (I love a bit of gold braid.) I’ll miss the august old gents in their special uniforms who guard the entrance to the Royal Enclosure. I’ll miss the atmosphere.

But the television is a good show. Channel Four Racing, after a rocky start with its new team, have settled down into harness now, and Nick Luck with his sharp tailoring and his sense of humour and his enthusiasm has grown into an outstanding broadcaster. I can watch the replays and see clearly the pattern of each race. I don’t get that on the course, because my race glasses are usually shaking too much. I’ll still have a great shout, and Stanley the Dog will bark and jump up and down, and I’ve even shipped it in a bit of Guinness, which is very, very naughty on a school day.

It’s all power and glory. The best in the world, up against the best in the world. They are flying in from Australia, America, France, Ireland, Hong Kong and Japan. All those hopes and dreams, all that thought and care, all that breeding and brilliance will be out there, where the flying hooves thunder down the track. It really is like Christmas and Easter.
 
Here is the old lady, many of whose cousins will be running today, very happy that she is no longer required to do all that galloping at top speed nonsense:



I’m hoping that the cream will rise to the top today, and that Solow and Gleneagles do the business. If my old friend Sole Power can weave his way through the field with his thrilling late run, I shall cry tears of joy. And my each-way bet is the very lovely Buratino , a juvenile who is more exposed than his rivals, but with such a turn of foot that I hope he might see them off.
Be lucky, my darlings.

Ascot, Day Three. Cometh the hour, cometh the man.

The thrilling thing about the Royal Meeting is that it throws up stories, as if a seasoned old scriptwriter had sat down, thrown every last shred of cautious professionalism to the four winds, and let rip.

If the first day was about a horse, when Dawn Approach rose from the ashes like a fiery phoenix, the second day was about a man. The man is a very young one; polite, soft-spoken, modest. He is, without flash or fanfare, very, very good at his job. That talent, only three years ago, did not seem enough. In 2010, James Doyle was so disillusioned with race riding that he booked himself onto a plumbing course. Yesterday, at the age of 25, he rode his first winner at the Royal Meeting, when Al Kazeem vanquished Camelot and a field of top-flight rivals in the big contest of the day.

The shattering highs and lows of racing could not have been more vividly illustrated. Only half an hour before, Doyle had gone out on the talented filly Thistle Bird. He must have been full of hopes. But, once again the ultimate mystery struck. Thistle Bird ran no race, labouring away from miles out, never looking likely. They may take her home and scope her and find some muck in her lungs, or it may have to be a puzzle that remains forever unsolved, the kind of thing where, as racing people say, you just have to put a line through it. James Doyle was so despondent that he could hardly construct complete sentences when interviewed afterwards in the weighing room by Mick Fitzgerald.

Then fortune turned topsy-turvy, and Al Kazeem came powering down the straight like a titan, after Paul Hanagan had slipped the field and must have thought he had the race in the bag. It was a brilliant ride by Doyle because the older jockey, canny and tactical as the day is long, had gone on the bend, and taken the field a bit by surprise. But James Doyle was alive to the move, shook his own fella up so that he would not have too much to do, and in the end, reeled in Mukhadram in a thrilling finish.

Suddenly, the young jockey was all blinding smiles and eloquent words. The bleak start to the day was forgotten.

That lovely victory would have been enough for anyone. But in the next hour, the improbable happened. A dear old handicapper called Belgian Bill suddenly decided to have his day in the sun, and in the muddling cavalry charge that is the Royal Hunt Cup, he powered through the huge field, ignoring a pocket here or a lack of gap there, and put his determined head in front. (According to his trainer, the auld fella loves a bit of trouble in running, as it keeps him amused. That’s the kind of horse that really captures my heart.)

At 33-1, Belgian Bill might not have been on James Doyle’s list of sure things for the meeting, but the old horse made it look inevitable, and the price in hindsight stupidly long.

It was an enchanting result for another reason. The trainer, George Baker, has been going for about five years, and this was his first winner at the Royal Meeting. That is a huge milestone in any trainer’s life. It makes all the wet Wednesdays at Wolverhampton and the demoralised trips back from Ripon worth it. The memory of that moment will brighten the dark winter mornings and warm the heart when the snow lies thick on the gallops. ‘It’s what you dream of,’ said Baker, smiling with disbelief.

James Doyle, by this stage, looked as if someone had transported him into a fairytale where he was riding unicorns heralded by choirs of angels. But it still was his day at the office, so after the sunshine and congratulation, he had to run back into the weighing room to change into the vivid yellow colours of Rizeena. Many of the races at Ascot are impossible, but the Queen Mary seemed particularly hard to unpick. It was a big field of very talented fillies; one of those things where you could make a brilliant case for six or seven. On impulse, I had twenty quid on Rizeena, because she’d won so impressively before, and because confidence does run down the reins, and James Doyle was at that moment the most confident man in three counties.

She bolted up. There was not a single moment’s doubt. James Doyle, who had never ridden a winner at the meeting before, who almost became a plumber, had suddenly chalked up three triumphs at the greatest flat fixture in the world in under ninety minutes. And the especially lovely thing about the last one was that it was for Clive Brittain, a trainer who is almost eighty, and who likes to do a special dance in the winner’s enclosure after a victory. Sure enough, there he was, doing a little soft shoe shuffle, joking with Clare Balding, who had to use all her professional skills not to break down in hopeless laughter, whilst the happy crowds clapped and cheered around him.

I am all about the horses. I love these thoroughbreds as if they were my own. I admire them for their beauty, their brilliance, their courage, their mystery. But yesterday was really about humans. One trainer is starting his journey, and one is ending it, and they would both have felt the exact same euphoria. And one jockey has suddenly had all his dreams granted, as if the fates woke up that morning and alighted on his good shoulders with all their beneficence and grace, and lent him wings.

My mother stirred herself. ‘What a very nice young man that is,’ she said.

Today, it could be the mighty moment for the Queen, if dear little Estimate could win The Gold Cup. I watched Estimate canter away with the Queen’s Vase last year to riotous applause, but this is a stiffer test, and there are plenty of good challengers to foil her dream. But if yesterday showed anything, it is that dreams do sometimes come true. So I’ll cross my fingers for Her Majesty and her lovely filly.

For the rest, I remain mostly baffled. I’d love Riposte to run a big race for Lady Cecil, and I think Mark Johnston might just have a chance with Maputo. The Johnston horses tend to be amazingly tough and genuine, as if there is something in the good Yorkshire water, and always give their running. My each-way fancy is Elkaayed for Roger Varian. I have never met Roger Varian in my life but I love him because he looks more like a professor of ancient history than a trainer and he is always so courteous and modest. And he has excellent tailoring.

But it’s Ascot; anything could happen. The only thing I do know is that there will be more stories to tell.

The Royal Meeting, Day Two. In which I look back on a quite extraordinary opening day.

What a day.

I didn’t think, after the imperial procession that was Frankel’s Queen Anne, an opening day at Ascot could ever match it again. And yet, somehow, the Royal Meeting awoke, stretched itself, and put its dander up. There was more drama and delight than you could shake an ebony walking stick at.

First there was the sombre business of the day, done with elegance and grace. There was a minute of silence in memory of Sir Henry Cecil. Ladies in extravagant hats bowed their heads and clasped their hands, almost as if in prayer, and gentlemen stood ramrod straight, their top hats by their sides.

On the television, Clare Balding said a very clever thing and true thing. She said: ‘I always think the best way to remember someone who has died is to keep talking about them.’ I remember that exact thing after my father died. All I wanted to do was speak of him and his glory days. It’s a way of keeping the lost ones alive in all our hearts.

And there is so much to say of Sir Henry Cecil, especially in this week, the space of some of his greatest triumphs and most extraordinary records. He had seventy-five winners at the Royal Meeting, a number that may never be matched. It is so far ahead of the herd, stretching into the realms of myth.

Then it was time for the American star to come and dazzle us. Anticipation was intense. But, in the way of thoroughbreds, with all their mystery, Animal Kingdom did not run his race. There was no obvious excuse. He did not settle and raced too freely and then fizzled out, falling tamely back through the field, his fine brilliance extinguished.

It’s always sad to see a champion not give his running, but up at the front an Irish horse finally fulfilled his promise. Declaration of War is one of the apples of Ballydoyle’s eye, but he was sadly disappointing last time out, and there was suspicion he was a bit of hype, not quite as good as they all thought. I had an each-way saver on him, because those Ballydoyle boys know what they are talking about, and I could not believe they would send him to Ascot for nothing. He did run his race, and won beautifully, starting to look as if he will make up into the good horse they all thought he was.

But then the real drama unfolded. Amazingly, against the odds, Dawn Approach was back. He had imploded so fatally, so publicly, so humiliatingly, in the Derby, that the connections could hardly speak, except to say that he would be put away and there were no plans. Suddenly, without warning, Jim Bolger announced that his mighty colt would be back for Ascot.

This was not what anyone expected. The Derby is not even three weeks ago. For a horse to boil over like that could leave not only physical but mental scars. Up until that terrible moment, Dawn Approach had had everything his own way. He had dominated good fields, always had luck in running, never encountered anything to shake his famous sang-froid. His record was unblemished. He was the boss horse indeed, alpha to his hoof tips. Would he come back so quickly with his appetite for the game undimmed? Could his star shine again?

To complicate matters, the lovely, strong colt Toronado, the equal apple of the Hannon eye, who had had his own disaster in the Guineas, was also returning to the track, on another retrieval mission. And then there was Magician, so dominant in the Irish Guineas, but who had suffered a freak accident in his last week of preparation. He was having a nice relaxing time in the equine spa when a swallow flew straight into his forehead, and the horse leapt out and bashed his legs. He had missed a piece of work, so his carefully calibrated training schedule was interrupted.

The question marks hovered over all these lovely equine heads. I adore them all and could not choose between them. I went back and forth, like a confused metronome. But there, suddenly, was Dawn Approach, coming into the pre-parade ring, looking exactly like his old self: athletic, shining, utterly relaxed. That’s the fellow I know, I thought. On pure instinct, I put the house on him. I suddenly realised that I wanted him to redeem himself more than I could say.

I had a bit each-way on Toronado, for loyalty and love, and paced about with screaming nerves as the horses went into the stalls.

And they were off. Dawn Approach once again fought for his head. Poor Kevin Manning, who had had such a nightmare in the Derby, was fighting to settle his horse all over again. Manning is a quiet, interior jockey. He does not showboat. He is a man of very few words, and has said little about the whole debacle. He puts all his energy and talent into riding, not talking. I could not bear it if the same ghastly battle was going to be waged all over again.

But then, miraculously, as if Dawn Approach was remembering his true self, he dropped his head and settled into his big, rolling stride, balanced his strong body, and began to race. Now the story would be told. Would the Derby exertions and his early exuberance take its toll? Could he see it out?

He powered down the outside. Toronado, who had sat quietly out the back, came to join him. The duel which had not materialised in the Guineas looked as if it would finally be joined.

And then a horse on the inside jinked left, creating a disastrous domino effect. The horse outside him was hit, who crashed into Dawn Approach, who bumped into Toronado. Both the principles veered and lost their stride. This kind of thing can be enough to finish a challenge. It’s not just the loss of vital rhythm; that sort of barge at forty miles an hour can shock a horse into submission. But these two were made of doughty stuff. Kevin Manning and Richard Hughes got their fellows rolling again, and the two brave colts stuck their heads down and charged into the final furlong ahead of the rest, matching strides.

On the television, Simon Holt was shouting. In the room, I was shouting. My mother, a quiet polite person, suddenly yelled, at the top of her voice: COME ON KEVIN. Stanley the Dog went nuts.

The real Toronado, the stellar colt that the Hannons loved and believed in, was finally revealing himself. For a moment, he drew ahead. But Dawn Approach is not just brilliant, he is brave. He stuck out his neck, put his ears flat back, got a bullish, bugger off look in his eye, lengthened once more, and flashed past the line a nostril ahead.

The beautiful bold chestnut was redeemed. The risk paid off. Jim Bolger, one of the cleverest and canniest men ever to train a horse, was right. The crowd went wild. The drama rating ricocheted off the scale.

And that, my darlings, was, in the words of the song, a thrilling, absolutely chilling Ascot opening day.

I’m not sure we’ll see anything to match it.

Today, the ladies move into the spotlight. There is the Duke of Cambridge, for the older, polished fillies, and then the Queen Mary for the babies, raw two-year-olds who are still revealing their potential. There are so many I love that I can’t split them, and this will not be a betting day for me, but a watching for sheer love day.

If Chigun could win for Lady Cecil then I would expire from happiness, but she has the talented Duntle and Dank to vanquish.

I love little Oriel in the Queen Mary. She had no luck in running last time out and I’d adore to see her have her revenges.

And then there is the fascinating rematch between the progressive Al Kazeem and the old conqueror Camelot. Camelot, the Derby winner of last year, suffered a severe bout of colic over the winter and had to have an operation to save him. No one knows how much this takes out of a horse. He was thoroughly beaten by Al Kazeem last time out, and there is no scientific reason to see him reversing that form.

But again, Ballydoyle must be keeping the faith, to bring him back here, onto the highest stage of all. And there is almost nothing I love more than seeing a once-dominant horse reduced to underdog, with all the doubters and knockers out in force (last year’s three year olds were an average bunch; the Derby form does not add up to a hill of beans; etc, etc) and then, once again, having his day in the sun. So I’d love to see Camelot come back to his rampant best, and I’ll have a tiny loyalty bet from the heart.

Who knows? Day Two may give us drama again. It is Ascot. The Queen is there, with her match greys; there are crowds in improbable hats; there are Welsh Guards with trumpets. The best horses in the world are gathered. Anything could happen.

The Royal Meeting: Day One. Or, things do not go exactly to plan.

My fingers are actually shaking as I write this. My heart is banging like a big bass drum. It is because finally, after all the anticipation and the discussion and the questions and the waiting, the Royal Meeting is finally here.

My special holiday for the occasion did not get off to a flying start. My mind was so mazed with trying to work out whether Animal Kingdom would win the Queen Anne that I could not sleep. I finally drifted off in the smallest of the small hours, and slept straight through my alarm. My cunning plan had been to rise at seven-thirty, rush to the shop to buy the Racing Post, get out the notebook and give forensic attention to the form. Instead, I was cantering about like a loose horse all morning, hours late.

Even though I am officially on a break, I still decided I must do my HorseBack work. I had another plan for that: go very quickly there, take five pictures, rush back, do the Facebook page for which I am responsible, and then turn all my attention to the racing. Instead, when I got there, I was so enchanted by the lovely herd that I ended up standing in a field for fifteen minutes, looking out over the Deeside hills, chatting to two of their dearest mares. They stood, calm and dozy, like two auld wifies in their Scottish fastness, happily giving me their heads for some love and scratching. My heart stopped beating wildly for ten minutes, and stillness descended.

So now there is no time for the forensic form. I’m going to have to bet on gut and love, which is how I often gamble anyway. I’m all in on the global star Animal Kingdom. Despite the fact that Ascot represents an entirely different test from anything he has faced before, I think he has the mighty class to see him through. It’s a bit of a fairy tale, if he can do it; to come from the tough dirt of the Kentucky Derby to the emerald green straight mile of the Royal Meeting would be a story indeed.

The extraordinary thing about Ascot is that three of the most thrilling and highest grade races of the whole meeting come on the first day, boom boom boom, like silver bullets from a pointed gun. The reason that the whole week is so delirious is that all the superstars are here, primed for the occasion. It is the moment in the season when horses should be in their pomp. They have cast off their spring rustiness, felt the sun on their mighty backs, gained race fitness and experience. The babies will have had their education; the veterans will be remembering all their talent and moxy. Trainers will have laid out runners especially for this moment, bringing their precious cargo carefully to their crest and peak. And yet there are still mysteries. Not all the stories have yet been told; there is always the space for an improver to come out of the pack like a joker.

It is magnificent because it is steeped in history and the kind of absurd but lovely pageantry and pomp that only the British can really do without embarrassment. When the Queen is carried up the straight mile in her carriage pulled by the splendid match greys, three hundred years of tradition come with her. Even in these rushing, technological days, gentlemen still doff their shining top hats, in a rather touching display of old world courtliness.

It is a festival of beauty too. Ascot is one of the prettiest courses in England, from the gleaming sweep of its storied straight mile, where last year Frankel soared into immortality, to the wooded bends of Swinley Bottom, where so many dreams have been fulfilled and crashed. In the quiet of the pre-parade ring, where the horses are saddled in the dim cool of serried boxes, venerable old trees spread their benign branches over the equine athletes, in their last moment of calm before the hurly burly starts.

And there are the horses themselves, an aesthetic feast of perfect confirmation, shining coats, gleaming muscle, intelligent heads. A finely-bred thoroughbred in the month of June gladdens the eye like almost nothing else. Last year, when I flew south for the whole five days, it was not just to watch the racing; I wanted to gaze on all those brave, bonny creatures until I could look no more. I ruthlessly refused to socialise. I just wanted to fill my head with beauty.

And so it shall be today, this time on the television. I’ll have a few bets, but Ascot is famously impossible. My old dad used to fly abroad for the week, because it was the only way he could avoid the temptation of the betting shop, where he knew he would lose hundreds of pounds. Going on holiday was cheaper, he used to say. I want Animal Kingdom to win like the champion he is, and I’ve had a few quid on his lovely back. I’d like to see Toronado run his race, after disappointing in the Guineas, but at the same time, it would be tear-jerking to see Dawn Approach avenge his Derby debacle. If Lady Cecil could win with Tiger Cliff in the long-distance test, for the memory of Sir Henry, there would not be a dry eye in the house. Although I think the dark horse Homeric might run a huge race at 12-1. I can’t work out the sprints at all, because I can never work out the sprints.

So I will be shouting Come on my son, but not for much money. Mostly for love and beauty. They are all champions, these brilliant creatures, and over the next five days, they shall give more pleasure than they know.

 

No time for pictures. Just one, of the two dear, dozy girls with whom I spent the morning, about as far away from hats and trumpets and champion bloodlines as you can get. But none the less lovely for all that:

Farewell, Frankel; in which I say goodbye to a true champion

I’m going to say something controversial. I wrote yesterday, in the heat of emotion and adoration and nerves, that Frankel does not have an off day.

I think that yesterday he had an off day.

He has just won his fourteenth race, out of fourteen. He is confirmed as the greatest flat horse my generation has ever seen. He retires, unvanquished. Every inch of newsprint this morning is about the power and the glory, so it seems churlish and grouchy even to think of such a thing as an off day. But in my mind, it makes the champion more supreme. Even when not at his crest and peak, he can still dish out a beating to the second best horse in the world.

It is easy to forget how good Cirrus des Aigles is, because he is an older French horse, and we do not see him on our television screens here. On the latest official ratings, he stands on 130, at number two, a full four places ahead of the legendary Black Caviar. He came to Ascot in the form of his life, having destroyed a high-class field over the Arc weekend, cantering away on the bridle. He is a mudlark, relishing the testing ground over which Frankel was untried.

As well as Cirrus des Aigles, there was Nathaniel, fourth best in the world, brought to his peak by John Gosden, who is himself galloping towards the trainers’ championship.

Just to emphasise how difficult the task was, Frankel is in his pomp over a mile. This was only his second go at ten furlongs, and even though he made it look like a party at York, leaving Group One horses labouring in his wake, in testing ground a mile and a quarter will feel like further. Finally, Frankel is a big, heavy horse. In life, he is actually finer and lighter than he seems on the television, but he is still broad and strong, packed with muscle. Whilst his strength would help him go through the ground, he could not bounce over it as a lighter-framed horse might.

When he appeared in the paddock, he was wonderfully relaxed, ambling round like a dopey old Labrador. He used to get in a state before his races; Sir Henry Cecil has taught his horse the art of switching off, so all energy is saved for the race itself. But I started to wonder if Frankel was not a little bit too relaxed. For the very first time, he did not have the white foam of sweat that he always shows between his back legs.

This worried me. The irony is that sweating there is considered a very bad sign indeed. A bit of warmth on the neck is fine, but the hindquarters are a danger zone. I have even heard people say it is a mark of suspect temperament. Frankel always does it, and he always wins. The lack of the trademark white patch scratched away at the back of my mind.

He also looked a tiny bit starey in his coat. This is not surprising at this time of year, as the autumn weather descends, but I missed the gleam and sheen that I saw at York.

He flopped out of the stalls, in a heap, so Tom Queally had to shake him up as if to say, come on fella, this is business. Then Frankel showed his usual smooth power, gunning round the field with his finely balanced stride. Cirrus des Aigles was running on like a tiger, with plenty left, and for the first time this season,  Queally had to pick up his stick. Frankel did not float away, as he has done in the past. Yesterday, he could not rely on sheer class, he had to show his heart as well. He put his head down, dogged, resolute, and flashed past the line a couple of lengths in front.

In the end, the victory was more emphatic than the bare distance suggests. In the end, he won cosily; nothing was ever going to catch him. It was not the demolition job that we have seen from him in the past, but in some ways it was more glorious for all that.

I think he had come to the end of a long season. I think that he is such a fine, brilliant horse that he may have got a little grumpy with the cold and the wet. He will have been working in the gloomy October chill of East Anglia, where the winds whips straight across from Siberia. It may be sacrilege to say so, but I think, yesterday, the grand emperor was a tiny bit out of sorts. 

But that is the mark of a truly great horse. Any racehorse will have its mysteriously brilliant day. Sometimes they just run into form at a precise moment, which is why you’ll suddenly have a fifty to one outsider streaking home. All horses have their off days too, which is why you see hot odds on favourites go nowhere. Earlier in the afternoon, Opinion Poll, heavily backed for the long distance race, was practically pulled up. The historic ones are those that still go on and win, even when the stars are not aligned in their favour.

Even when Frankel is not at his rampant best, even when he may be feeling a little bit blah, as we all sometimes do, he still pulls it out of the bag. All the great ones have lost; even Mill Reef, Nijinsky, Dancing Brave had their defeats. At the winning post, Frankel has never seen the back of another horse; he does not know what losing is. Fourteen out of fourteen, on different ground, under different conditions, and over different distances, ten of those in Group One races, is an outrageous record. They all came for him, and they all were denied.

In some ways, although I rather longed for an imperial procession, I’m glad he had to scrap for it. We saw yesterday not so much a king, as a streetfighter. It made the drama more complete. It made me admire and love him more, not less. That horse is not a machine, or a freak, as some people say; he can go out with a chink in his armour and still prevail. Even when not at his singing, shining best, he can still beat the finest the world has to offer. Because along with his talent, and his grace, and his romping, raking stride, along with his power and brilliance, there is a brave, beating heart, that does not know how to give up.

And talking of hearts, the other one that is stout as the old oak of England is that of Sir Henry Cecil. There he was, frail and pale, bashing away at a horrible illness, but still pulling off the training performance of a lifetime. To keep any top class horse sound over three seasons is achievement enough; to hit fourteen out of fourteen, at the very highest level, is the stuff of dreams.

As Sir Henry spoke to the clamouring crowd of press, as the cheers and trumpets rang out behind him, his voice was thin and hardly audible. He nodded seriously, as he spoke the bare facts. ‘I can’t believe,’ he said, ‘in the history of racing there has been a better horse.’

There, in their swansong, in the midst of a sea of joy, stood Cecil and his lovely champion, the old fighter and the young warrior, a perfect picture of grace under pressure.

And that, that, was why I cried.

 

Today’s pictures:

The sun came out, and Scotland put on a show:

My little herd. Not quite world-beaters, but champions all to me:

How I found Red this morning. She can stand for hours and gaze at that view:

With just a hint of the look of eagles:

Serious Pigeon:

And in perfect profile:

The hill:

The final Frankel Day

It’s Frankel day. Normally, I wake on Frankel days like a child at Christmas. I am light with excitement. This morning, I overslept and woke heavy. I had been up half the night checking the weather forecast at Ascot, working out millimetres of precipitation in my mind. The connections were to walk the course to see if the ground was safe. There was uncertainty as to whether Frankel would even run. Sir Henry Cecil would not risk his wonder horse in the mud, and it gets famously boggy at Swinley Bottom.

To take my mind off it, I went up to see my own horse. I reminded her that she was Frankel’s second cousin once removed. She did not seem that interested. She laid her head on my chest and dozed off. She was in that kind of mood, sweetness coursing through her blue blood like wine.

Back at home, with three hours to go, I discover that Frankel will run. Then, the terror strikes. I had been rather cavalier about him running on soft ground; now doubts began to swarm. He’s won on it before, but not since his very first race, when he battled to see off Nathaniel, the horse who has come closest to him. It was easy ground at the Lockinge, early in the season, but, despite the torrential summer, Frankel has mostly had the good going.

Oh, I told myself, the people who know always say that the great horses will go on any ground. Frankel is such a balanced horse, so strong, so deep through the girth, with such a powerful, rhythmic stride, an almost skating movement that dances over the turf, that he can deal with anything.

But the haunting spectres still come. Rhythm wins races, and rhythm is Frankel’s special subject. He never deviates; he has a smooth, unrelenting cruising speed; he is as regular and pitiless as a metronome. It is that astonishing set-your-watch rhythmic action that breaks other horses’ hearts. What if, round the back, running down into that heavy ground, he loses his stride? What if the shock of the mud sends him off balance?

Don’t be absurd, says my hard, practical head. Frankel is a stone better than the next best horse. A stone. He is the greatest racehorse in the world, on official ratings. Tom Queally could do handstands on him and he would still win. He will cruise to the front and pull away and keep his crown; the doubters will look like monkeys.

All the same, this is a delicate Thoroughbred, for all his might and power; it is racing, where anything can happen. The excitement builds, but there is fear in it too.

I think, as I wait for his last ever appearance on a racecourse, why it is I love him so much, why he is so viscerally thrilling. I always wonder this, every time he runs, every time I wake with the twist in my stomach that announces Frankel day. I usually run out of adjectives.

It is that great, dancing stride. It is one of the most beautiful, pure things I’ve ever seen. It is the astonishing sense of floating over the green sward, combined with the powerhouse engine, hammering away like an industrial machine. To see grace and power together in this way is a rare thing indeed.

It is that every inch of him is lovely, from his great, muscled body, to his fine, wide head, to his deep, intelligent eye. When he stops, and pricks his ears, and lifts his head, and surveys his crowd like an emperor, he has, as my mother always says of the great ones, the look of eagles.

The best horses have something extra about them, something that can hardly be defined. Racing people call it presence. It is as if they are somehow aware of their greatness. As the crowds whoop and cheer, making a noise that should send any flight animal running for its life, Frankel takes it in as if it were merely his due. He used to be a bit spooky and highly-strung, in his early days. His adoring admirers, massed in ranks of joy, are aware that a racing horse, hopped up on the finest Canadian oats, may be startled by too much raucous clapping. When he went down at York, the crowd were tentative at first, not wanting to upset him. The slightly subdued cheer was rather touching, as if they were holding back, from politeness. Then, when they saw that the champion was almost basking in it, they let rip, and Frankel nodded his head in acknowledgement, and bounced over the turf as collected as a show pony.

When he comes back into the winner’s enclosure, there is no restraint. Trumpets sound, three cheers ring out, hands are red from clapping. He does not turn a hair. If ever there were a time for a horse to freak out, that would be it. Frankel’s presence is such, his seeming knowledge of his own brilliance is so ingrained, that he really does appear to know all this jubilee is for him.

But perhaps, most of all, it is his effortlessness. Tom Queally has not had to use his stick once this season. He hardly has to ask a question. He just shakes up the reins a little, and the horse responds instantly, powering forward, leaving good Group One horses labouring in his wake like selling platers. The best have gone up against him and been found ordinary. Everyone else is scrubbing away from the two furlong pole, and Frankel is running for fun.

All horses have their off days. There are times when they get out of bed on the wrong side, and they just do not run their race. No one knows why. There is an intrinsic mystery to the breed, which is why people say there is no such thing as a sure thing in racing. Frankel is as near to a sure thing as you will ever see. Commentators shout in disbelief as he pulls away from top class fields. ‘They can’t get him off the bridle,’ cried Simon Holt in astonishment, as Frankel tore over the Knavesmire.

‘Everything, for him, is so easy,’ said Willie Carson, at Ascot.

It is that easy, effortless, shining brilliance that sends shivers up the spine. It has such fineness, such purity, such sheer singing delight that it brings tears to my eyes. Not since Dancing Brave has anything given me so much untrammelled pleasure.

This afternoon is a risk. It is why I want to write this before the race. It is my final salute. I don’t want to see my great hero brought low, but he owes us nothing. He has lifted so many spirits, given so much joy. He is the best in a generation; he has nothing left to prove. Win or lose, and I still say win, he is the champion of my heart.

 

At Ascot, this June, in a lovely shot by Getty Images.

There will be regular pictures later. It was a pretty day, and the mountain has reappeared from the cloud. But for now, it is all about Frankel. He is the mountain.

Sunday: quick Black Caviar thoughts

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

As one of the Dear Readers so astutely diagnosed, there was a massive post-racing crash. I was incapable of anything other than drinking the restorative claret which the Beloved Cousin cracked open. (I am in her house for a day and two nights before I go back to Scotland tomorrow.)

There is so much to say about the great Australian mare, and I want to do her justice, and my brain is not yet back to full order, so I'll write about her on the train home, when I have seven lovely leisurely hours to get the right adjectives in the right order. And she does need adjectives.

In the meantime, some very quick thoughts. There is a big fuss about the jockey and the level of the performance and the tight finish. I say: nothing that happened yesterday diminished her brilliance one iota. She was on a strange track, in a strange country, in a strange hemisphere. I hate piling on jockeys; their lives are shatteringly hard, and they are the first to get the blame when something goes wrong. Poor Luke Nolen did make a mistake; he immediately admitted it, very bravely and publicly, I thought.

Almost all great horses get beat. That is what is so extraordinary about Frankel, or, his nearest equivalent over obstacles, Big Buck's, who is currently on seventeen consecutive victories. Dancing Brave, still officially the best horse since ratings began, lost the Derby. Nijinsky was done by the narrowest of margins in the Arc. People blamed Greville Starkey and Lester Piggott bitterly for those defeats.

Quite apart from keeping them sound, a trainer has to face the mystery of the thoroughbred. There are days when they do not run their race, and no one knows why. There are days when horses which have so far been ordinary suddenly find something extraordinary. The miracle of the really great ones is consistency, but they are not machines. The reason some people call Frankel a freak, even though I rather hate that description, is that it is freakish to be at the crest and peak of brilliance every time he hits a racetrack. Yet even he had a scare at Ascot last year, when people argue Tom Queally hit the front too soon and the mighty machine almost got caught close home.

Yesterday was not a parade. The lovely mare did not destroy her field. Her jockey did make an error, when he dropped his hands too early. I think she was feeling the effects of her long journey and the strangeness of everything. Yet she still won. She looked like she won on fumes. I think she does not know how to lose and that heart and instinct and greatness of spirit carried her over the line.

And in some ways that is even more marvellous, even more thrilling, and even more touching than an imperial display of excellence. Yesterday, she showed that she was not only talented, but that she was brave and tough. I love her for it.

The glory of Gatewood, and other animals

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

There are lots of different kinds of glory in racing. There is the perfect, untouchable, up on the high plains kind, which we saw on Tuesday, with the immaculate run of Frankel. There are the great weight-carrying performances, and the brilliant tactical rides. There are the wild surprise outsiders, who come up the rails, laughing at the pundits and the tipsters and the punters. There is the dear old dog who finally has his day. (I saw a horse who had lost something like 28 races finally have his first win at a small track a couple of weeks ago, and I felt as happy for him as if he were mine.)

Today, it was the glory of guts.

One of my favourite horses, Gatewood, was running in the Wolferton Handicap. The Wolferton is not the most glamorous or richest race at the royal meeting, but like all the handicaps at Ascot, it is tough to win. I had completely lost my heart to Gatewood when he won three weeks ago at Epsom, coming from last to first, encountering some trouble in running, but refusing to lie down. He stuck his head out and would not give up and prevailed. It's lovely watching a mighty champion streak away on the bridle, with many lengths in hand, but it's just as thrilling, perhaps in some ways even more so, to see those really gutsy animals who dig deep and give all they've got, and win by a neck.

Gatewood is one of the most genuine horses I've seen in training. But he had a hard race at Epsom, and had not had that long to recover. As I watched him, down in the pre-parade ring, he looked well, but slightly subdued. He is a neat, beautifully put together horse, but not a flashy type. He was not preening or giving out looks of eagles, or even on his toes. I could not tell whether this is because he has a lovely temperament, or whether that recent battle had left its scars. Some horses thrive on pressure; they are those flinty types who improve with constant demands and running. Others need to be nurtured and wrapped in cotton wool, and must have plenty of recuperation time.

Certainly, in the paddock, there were others who looked in more obviously fine fettle, but I stuck with dear Gatewood, out of sheer love. The form was all there, it was just a question of what that last race had taken out of him. No one would know until he was out there on the green turf.

Off they set. It was a mile and two, sweeping out of the round course and into the straight. Gatewood was well positioned in fourth. A wall of horses thundered down to the two furlong pole. My fella was asked for his effort. For a moment, I thought that he would not, could not, respond. I started shouting, slightly to the surprise of the venerable lady to my left. Then the horse picked up, and game and glorious and gutsy as he is, put every last ounce of effort into it, and flashed past the winning post by a head.

I erupted in joy. The beauty turned, and cantered back past me, his fine legs stretching out in a daisy cutter action, his head lifted in triumph, his ears pricked. His young jockey, the marvellous William Buick, was bright red in the face, from happiness, from exhaustion. The horse gazed at the stands, applauding him, and there, even though he is not a famous group one champion, was the look of eagles in his dear old eyes.

Gatewood is a talented horse, he is beautifully bred (related to Red the Mare, of course, of course, through Northern Dancer, their common great-grandsire), he is not a mug. But I swear he won that race on heart alone.

It had been a lovely day for me. I had an excellent punt on the dancing filly Newfangled, who romped home in the first. Then, another of my favourites, Astrology, could not quite do it in the second, but I love him so I forgive him everything. The Derby took it out of him, I think. Then, there was the big race, which I could not untangle. I did something I never do. I went on my pick of the paddock. Often, when you see the horses before a race, there are three or four who stand out. It can be a mug's game, because there are some horses which are slow as tractors but look gorgeous. My dear Red is a perfect example of this. She is physically glorious, has a beautiful action, and, in racing terms, is the most sluggish of slow coaches.

But before the Coronation Stakes, I fell completely in love with a John Gosden filly called Fallen for You. I had fallen for her in ten seconds. She stood out by a country mile. She had so much presence, and such character, and she gleamed and glowed with health. She was one of the most bonny fillies I have seen this week. She was 16-1 on the Tote and I put a fiver on each way, again, for sheer love.

She bolted up. I actually stopped shouting for a moment because I was so speechless with amazement. I've never done that before in my life. Pick of the paddock, baby.

Gatewood was also trained by John Gosden, and it was particularly lovely seeing him have such mighty victories today, because he suffered a horrible tragedy when his delightful horse, The Nile, broke its leg on the first day in a hideous incident, and had to be put down. It's pretty rare to see flat horses do this, but it reminds one how fragile they are, as well as how brave and tough. Those brilliant legs can go, from the mere fact of a wrong angle.

Then, an even more lovely thing happened. In the Queen's Vase, the Queen herself had a nice filly called Estimate. She'd won well at Salisbury last time out but this was a big step up in class and trip. She went off favourite, mostly I think because of sentimental Jubilee year bets. I had thought she might have the right stuff, but then I saw her in the ring, and she was a small mare, narrow in the neck, with a sweet but plain face. It was two miles, and the other horses looked so big and muscled and powerful by comparison.

And, I thought, it really would be too good to be true, on this Diamond Jubilee.

The ordinary little brown mare galloped to the front and did not stop and won as she liked. The crowd went mad. Posh gentlemen took their hats off and waved them in the air as if they were at a football match.

I rushed to the winner's enclosure. There was Estimate, suddenly looking rather beautiful, flushed with her great victory. 'Where is she? Is she there?' said people in the crowd, looking around for the Queen. Would her Majesty descend from the Royal box? Yes, she would. There she was, walking across the grass, and cheers and whoops and roars rang out.

Suddenly, everyone realised it was the Queen's Vase, which meant the cup would be presented by a member of the royal family. 'I suppose she can't really present it to herself,' said the lady next to me, laughing happily. 'Your Majesty, here is your cup, well done. Oh, thank you Your Majesty.' Everyone was very excited by this stage. The Queen, serene in lilac, was smiling all over her face, and giving Estimate a regal pat.

Then, the ramrod nautical figure of Prince Philip appeared, and picked up the trophy, and gave it to his wife. I know it's silly to get soft about the Queen, but I am quite silly, and I have to say I had a tear in my eye. There was something so touching about the two old people and the young filly and the cup and the delirious crowd. The lady next to me was wiping her eyes.

My mother, when I rang an hour later, was still misty with emotion. 'You know,' I said, 'there really was nothing to her, that filly, but she ran like a titan.'

'Oh, she was glorious,' said my mother.

'But then,' I said, 'it's sometimes the way with those great mares. Dunfermline wasn't much to look at; Quevega is just an ordinary brown mare.'

'Yes,' said my mother. 'Sometimes, if they look too much like flashy colts, they are not much good.'

I told her the story of the Queen and the crowd in the winning enclosure, and the whoops and the cheers and the clapping.

I walked away with a big fat smile on my face, even though I had not a penny on that filly. I probably should be a grouchy old republican, but I can't help it, I love the Queen. Her untrammelled delight when her brave little horse won her that shiny cup really was one of the sweetest things I've seen in racing.

So, it was a great day.

Ascot: Day Three

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

The thing I had completely forgotten about Ascot is the exhaustion. I feel as if I have run in the Gold Cup myself. Canter, canter, canter I go, from the stands to the ring, to the rails, and back again. Even in my ruthlessly practical flat patent boots, my poor calves feel as if someone has been battering them with hammers. I do not know how the women in heels do it. I take my hat off to the women in heels.

I've come all this way for the horses, so today I shrugged off all social engagements and concentrated entirely on the horseflesh. The best thing of all is to go early to the pre-parade ring. This is a smooth asphalt circle, gentled with venerable green trees, lined with the saddling boxes, where the horses come out before the paddock. They walk round, their newly shod hoofs wonderfully silent on the soft black surface, naked except for their halters. It is the time that you can really see them; it is not where the crowds go. You look for the condition of their coats, the ease of their walk, the gleam in their eye.

Some are old hands, gloriously relaxed, looking at the observers with sage eyes. Some are dancing like cats on hot tin roofs, on their toes, feeling the atmosphere. Some give great bucks of nerves and good health. 'Steady, steady,' I say, out loud.

I think of my lovely Red, back at home in her field, dreaming of the way her grandfather won The Derby. Many of her relations are here; in some of them I can see the family resemblance. The bloodlines of Northern Dancer and Nijinksy still run strong. I think: if she were here it would be like a reunion of cousins. This thought gives me idiotic satisfaction.

I love everything about it. I love watching the trainers, their faces set with concentration. I love the lads, gentling their charges. I love seeing the jockeys come out of the tunnel, all their energy focussed on the task ahead. If they sense their ride is getting a bit fired up, they run a soothing hand up the neck, gentling the withers, absolutely sensitive to the horse's mood.

I love the moment when they turn onto the course, and the horses go from walk to bucketing canter in one stride. I love the stir and shift of the crowd as the field races into the final furlong. I love the thunder of the hooves on the turf, which you can feel run through you, if you go and stand right by the rails.

I had absolutely no luck today. I remember now why my old dad used to take himself abroad during Ascot week; he always said going on holiday was cheaper. He lost too much money, year after year, at the royal meeting. It's because all the best horses come, and there are often maximum fields, and raiders fly in from America, Australia, New Zealand, France, Germany. Not to mention the Irish. It has been a very international festival so far: America, the Antipodes and Germany have all scored. Aiden O'Brien, the brilliant Irish trainer, has had a fine time.

But I don't care I lost money today, although I was sad to see two of my favourite horses, the lovely filly Vow, and the fine colt Wortham Heath, get beat. I saw so much beauty. The thoroughbred really is one of the most glorious sights in the world. It is grace and power, delicacy and intelligence, courage and an ancient desire to win. It is at once the most civilised of human creations - bred over centuries for this very specific purpose - and the most untamed of wild beasts - harking back to its ancestral past, in the Arabian sands.

It's enchanting being able to watch them on television, as I do, week after week, but to come and see them in the flesh, and to hear the roar as the best of them puts its lovely head in front, is something quite else. I feel the luck and the privilege keenly,

The ephemera is fun. The betting is fun, the watching of the hats is amusing, the presence of the Queen, rolling up the straight mile in her open carriage is a stirring piece of tradition. The green course is one of the finest in Britain, the men in morning coats tipping their hats to each other is vastly diverting.

I even made some new friends, most especially a rather grand military fellow from America.

'I do like your uniform,' I said, boldly, as we were standing upsides by the Shergar bar.

'Thank you,' he said.

'Nothing I like better than a good bit of gold braid,' I said.

We chatted for a bit and I'm afraid I may have said 'Welcome to Britain,' as if Britain belonged to me. I sometimes just open my mouth and nutty things come out of it. But I love the thought of American visitors coming to one of our oldest race meetings, and seeing all this, and the least I can do is a little cultural ambassadorship.

All this is lovely, but the real loveliness, the point of it all, the thing that makes my heart lift like almost nothing else, is the equine beauty. Watching Frankel on Tuesday was the best thing I ever saw; it was on another level altogether. But every moment throws up its joys, because of the sheer gloriousness of the horses. Win or lose; triumphant or hopelessly outpaced, they all try their brave, beating hearts out, they all carry dreams and hopes. They are so lovely to look at, so honest and true, so very fine. That is why I don't care so much about the hats, or the lost bets, or anything really. I am spending five days in the presence of greatness, not in money won, or contests gained, or ratings rated, but in the simple fact of the most extraordinary breed of horse in world.

Frankel

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

I am going to attempt a little mobile blogging, because there shall be so much to tell you. Sadly, no pictures though. You shall just have to paint mind pictures of Red and the Pigeon until I return to my desk.

I sit in the lovely London flat of a generous relation, hardly able to believe that only fourteen hours ago I was sitting with my mare in her damp Scottish field. In my absurdity, I had to rush up to say goodbye before catching the train south. She was lying down when I arrived, dozing. I know I bang on about it all the time, but horses are flight animals; it is very, very rare for them to lie down in the presence of a human. Often, they do not lie at all, but sleep standing up, their heads lowered, one eye flickering, just in case of predators.

I walked in very softly, not wanting to disturb. She was not disturbed. I sat down next to her in my London kit, and gave her some nuts, and stroked her dear white face. She was still lying there, contemplating the universe, when I left.

Tomorrow, there shall be another wonder horse, of quite another kidney. Frankel is so wild and majestic that he has been known to trash his box, pulling the manger off the wall, turning his rug inside out. Someone has to go and check on him at ten at night, to make sure he has not been up to his emperor's tricks. No dopey lying down for him.

I've written about Frankel so often that I scrape the barrel for superlatives. His bald figures are enough: never beaten, top-rated horse in the entire world. The not being beaten thing is extraordinary enough on its face. Even the best horses have an off day. Sometimes they don't get the luck in running; the ground might not be right; the jockey may make a tactical mistake. The mystery of the thoroughbred is such that racing people have a good, honest expression for it. They say: he just did not run his race. No one knows why.

Frankel always runs his race. He runs it with such power, such exuberance, such glory and joy that he puts himself into a category all his own. His dancing, raking stride eats up the turf, making fine horses look ordinary. He has a singularity, a fired determination, a straightness in running that makes watching him feel like poetry. It is elemental, and beyond mere prose.

Tomorrow is the first time I shall see him in the flesh. It is the first time I shall hear the roar, sense the crack of electricity in the air. Usually, when a horse I love goes out to do his thing, I hedge the race about with caveats. Anything can happen in racing, I say. This time, I have no caveats. If Frankel gets beat tomorrow, I shall eat my hat. Which shall be fatal, since I only have one hat.

He is the reason that I have travelled five hundred miles, even though I hate to travel. He is the reason I have left my dear little Pidge with The Mother, and left my gorgeous mare dozing in her field. He is the reason I shall put on my damned hat.

I am very, very lucky to be alive to see him. He is one of the few we shall all remember, when we are old and crabbed.

If you are near a television at two-thirty tomorrow, switch on BBC1. Unless something very terrible happens, you shall see history. You shall see a king, in all his glory and pomp. Let us hope the hat goes in the air, where it belongs.

Leaving

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

I have given myself the greatest treat that any lover of racing could dream of: five days at the Royal Meeting.

And yet my heart lurches and fails in my chest.

It does not matter what delight awaits me in the south, I always fall prey to tugging melancholy when I have to leave home. There is the magical thinking that says I shall not come back (dead in a ditch; kidnapped by bandits) and then what shall happen to all the books? Who shall tell the dog? Who will have to sort out the cupboard of doom?

I have, in my grouchy middle-age, turned into a homebug. If you told me I could never leave Scotland again, I should be delighted. The thought of packing and travelling and departing makes me tired and sad. (Of course, once I am on the train, and in the dirty old city, I shall be joyous and delighted; it’s just the night before. It’s the entire concept of leaving.)

Now, there is one more person I have to say goodbye to. The mare seemed to sense my dread this evening; she threw her head about and made furious faces and cow-kicked at imaginary flies. Eventually I got her to settle and she dozed off on my chest and I stroked the velvet part of her muzzle and thought: the next time I have to go away I’m putting her in a horsebox and taking her with. (This is how deranged with love I have become.)

As I left, she put her face over the gate and pricked her ears and whinnied at me. It’s bad enough having the Pigeon doing the Disney face. Now I’ve got Red and her dying fall whinny.

By tomorrow, I shall be settled on the 9.52 with my Racing Post, determined to work out who shall win the Coventry (I have a feeling for a colt called Sir Prancealot) and dreaming of Frankel. I am going to see the two greatest horses in the entire world, according to official ratings: Frankel and Black Caviar. For a racing person, this is like having lunch with Judi Dench and Maggie Smith, or taking tea with the astronomer royal, or being given an hour alone in a room with the Mona Lisa. It’s the tops, in other words. It’s a Bendel bonnet, a Shakespeare sonnet; it’s Mickey Mouse.

But just now, I look out at the green trees in the misty dreich of a Scottish evening and think: what will happen to the hill?

 

Pictures today are entirely self-indulgent. When I am missing home, I may log on to my tiny portable computer and see this:

This is what she looks like when she does her circus act:

Which, it has to be said, does not impress the Pigeon much:

 

A few of tonight’s garden:

And the dear old hill:

My heart may be cracking at the thought of leaving my girls, but they are going to be looked after like queens by the Mother, the Stepfather, the Horse Talker, the Younger Niece, the World Traveller, the Sister, the Young Gentleman, and everyone else on the compound. For Red in particular I have left strict instructions about how she likes her carrots (neatly chopped) and an anatomy of her moods (antic and various and unbelievably, incredibly funny and sweet).

So off I trundle, leaving, it seems, my heart and most of my sanity behind. I did not know that when I hit forty-five I should go animal crackers, but there we are. I suppose it’s better than buying a Lamborghini.

Bonus Post: a little bit of radio gold

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

This is one of the most enchanting things I've heard this year. It is a short radio trip to the Royal Meeting at Ascot, taken by the comedian Hardeep Singh Kohli. It confounds every expectation. You might think that Singh Kohli, whose parents moved here from India, and who was brought up in Glasgow, would not necessarily be the most obvious person to send to the most famous race meeting in the entire calendar. Racing, after all, is still rather old-fashioned, and very, very white. (Not, I think,in a horrid way, but simply because horse people come mostly from the countryside, and ethnic diversity tends to live in the cities. It's geography, more than anything else.) The cross people at The Telegraph, who are convinced the BBC lives to sneer at tradition, would certainly see this interesting bit of juxtaposition as an opportunity for the metropolitan types at the Beeb to scoff at the toffs.

Not a bit of it. Singh Kohli brings a lovely, generous, outsider's eye to the proceedings, admires the Queen, conducts two of the best interviews with Peter O'Sullivan and Henry Cecil I've ever heard, and ends up with a good old British sing-song. It turns out people still really do sing 'Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner'. It made me a bit teary.

Anyway, if you can get the iPlayer, have a listen:


BBC iPlayer - Royal Racers and Fascinators