The last day. Or, different kinds of winning.

I wake up thinking: ‘Oh, Bob.’

Today is the Gold Cup, and little Bob’s Worth is taking his second go at it. My first morning thought is how lovely it would be to see a two-time winner of jumping’s greatest race who is known to everyone as Bob. Every time Nicky Henderson says the word Bob, his face lights up with fondness and hope. Sometimes, someone from Seven Barrows posts a picture on the internet, of Bob, dozily hanging out in his barn with Oscar Whisky. The two of them live together, like a pair of crusty old bachelors, in a rambling, rather scruffy old barn. I love that too.

Yesterday, neither dream quite came true. Jonjo O’Neill and JP McManus, those canny old campaigners, snatched the prize with More of That, under a perfect ride from Barry Geraghty. Annie Power, a stern look on her chestnut face, chased him home, but could not get past. People will say she didn’t stay, or wasn’t as good as everyone thought, but it was her first go at three miles, her first time on the big stage, and it was clear the occasion got to her a little. She’ll be back, and she’ll be brilliant, and in some ways I love her even more, now that she has been roughed up a bit in battle, rather than strolling about having everything her own way.

Big Buck’s looked ravishing, the look of eagles still in his eye. For half the race, he travelled like the Titan of old. He jumps a hurdle like no other horse. The really brilliant ones, like Hurricane Fly, ping their hurdles; it’s not really a jump, it’s a kind of flip, bringing the obstacle under them whilst still running, as if the hurdle becomes part of their stride. It’s quite hard to describe. Big Buck’s does not ping, he flows and floats, as if he is in slow motion, but so fast that he loses not an inch of ground. It’s a glorious thing to watch.

He travelled, he flowed over his hurdles, he looked as mighty as ever. Sam Twiston-Davies gave him a lovely, quiet, intelligent ride. And then - after all the brilliance, after all the dominance, after all the years when nothing could get him off the bridle – he was asked the question, and there was no answer. Age and setbacks at last had him in their crocodile grip.

But he was not disgraced. He ran on to finish fifth. Fifth in a World Hurdle, after fourteen months off with a tendon, at the age of eleven, is pretty impressive in its own right. I’m glad they gave him one last go at it. And I’m glad that at once, after the race, Paul Nicholls said they would retire him.

The gracious, athletic racehorse, his head low, his ears pricked, walked round the paddock one last time, in the glancing afternoon sun. As the news came over the loudspeakers, the crowd stood and applauded.

It was a thank you. Thanks for the mighty days, the jubilee days, the hats in the air days.

You could set your watch by Big Buck’s. All horses have mysterious bad days, even the most brilliant. For eighteen runs, Big Buck’s never had a bad day. It’s hard enough to get an ordinary horse to win three races in a row, let alone eighteen. To do it at the highest level is a sort of joke brilliance.

That is why the crowd rose. It knew greatness when it saw it. It knew that ones like this don’t come around very often. Respect, and gratitude, was due.

Rose Loxton, who looks after Big Buck’s, was in floods of tears. Paul Nicholls, who is a professional to his bones, let the ordinary, vulnerable human shine through, patting his great hero on the shoulder, walking round with him, his eyes light with love and as much pride as if the old fella had won.

He did win, in the end. Winning is not just getting past the post with your head in front. There are other victories.

The most lovely thing of all is that Big Buck’s will retire to Ditcheat, and stay with his beloved Rose. I think of him teaching the young ones, who come over from France, raw and gangly and not knowing anything, how to go steadily up the hill. Every yard needs an old-timer who can show the young ones how to go up the hill. Perhaps every human does, too.

So, funnily enough, even though the impossible dream did not happen, it was a day with its own loveliness.

I had two thrilling winners, both with jockeys I particularly like. Dynaste came back to his best, under a smiling Tom Scudamore, much to my delight. And Fingal Bay, after time off with injury and a disastrous brush with chasing, was patiently nursed back by the Hobbs team, and fought all the way to the line, under the great Richard Johnson drive, winning by a nose. I have hardly any voice left at all.

But it really is not all about the winners. Perhaps the keenest pleasure I had all day was watching one of my most loved stalwarts, Double Ross, run a huge race to finish third in the novice chase. He jumped some of the fences as beautifully as anything I’ve ever seen, seeing a perfect stride, coming up out of Sam Twiston’s hands. And dear old Hunt Ball was back, in the Ryanair, rather thrown in the deep end at 25-1. But he got into a lovely rhythm and galloped strongly and jumped accurately, and he finished an honourable fourth. After all the noise and scandal and the mad trip to America, that bonny horse coming back where he belongs, showing that his talent is real, that he was no flash in the pan, was winning indeed.

Today, there is Bob.

Why does one love one horse and only admire another? I can’t tell you. I love Bob because he’s just a little unassuming fellow. He is tiny, by chasing standards. He’s got a short neck and a small, intelligent head. You’d walk straight past him, never thinking he was a champion. You might think: that looks like a bonny, bright fella. But you would not think a world-beater.

Sometimes, he doesn’t even jump that well. He can muddle over a few. He can hit a flat spot in his races and seem as if he is labouring. He does not do the huge leaps or the raking stride of some of my equine heroes.

Here is what Bobs Worth does. He fights. He puts that little head down and he battles and battles and battles. In that small, compact body, hides the heart of a lion. ‘He’ll never stop galloping for you,’ says Nicky Henderson.

You know how I feel about a trier. Bob tries, like nothing else.

I’m a great admirer of Silviniaco Conti, and I hope my big, bonny old favourite, Teaforthree, might run into a place. But I’m shouting for Bob, even though winning two Gold Cups is one of the most Herculean tasks in racing. If it could be done on heart alone, then Bob would be home and hosed.

Could one more dream come true?

Today traditionally is the day I would always call Big Buck’s day. I would wake up like a child at Christmas, my heart beating at the thought of the magnificence to come.

Now, as the new pretenders start to rear their glorious heads, it may be Annie Power day.

Annie Power is the queen in waiting. She may be one of the great race mares, spoken of in the same breath as Dawn Run. She is tough, strong, and enthusiastic, with a dash of stardust about her. She has found everything she has done so far ridiculously easy.

The received wisdom is that she is a glittering star, and that Big Buck’s is a waning moon. He’s eleven, which would make this task tough for him even in the best year. But he has not had the best year. He’s been off with a tendon; his last run was a losing battle. The Irish, whose eyes are indeed smiling, think that Annie will scoot up the hill, leaving the old champion trailing in her wake.

I love her. She thrills me. I hope she stays around for years. I think she might one day take her place in the Gold Cup. If she can win today, which is in itself a tremendous ask, I shall throw my hat in the air.

My absurd old heart still belongs to Big Buck’s. He has delighted everyone who loves racing for so long. He is in a class of his own.

He should not win. All the odds are stacked against him. But he is Big Buck’s. He is, as the old racing hands say, different gravy. If anyone can pull it out of the fire, he can.

Anything could happen. The old warrior could pull up, or he could battle up the hill to regain his crown. The young queen could find the big stage too much, and go out like a light. She has never run at this level, and she has never gone this far. Or she could rise to the occasion, and soar to new heights. The anticipated duel may not materialise at all. At Fishers Cross could refind his brilliance and beat the both of them.

It’s not a betting day for me. I’m up on the meeting; my punting race is run. It really is a love day. Big Buck’s owes his adoring fans not one thing. He has given so much. If he can make the improbable come true, it will be the story of the festival, and it will truly be a dream to dream. It would also be the training performance of the year from Paul Nicholls, who keeps the faith with his mighty campaigner. He has said that he tips his hat to the brilliance of the great mare, but ‘mine won’t go down without a fight.’ It would also be the ride of his life for young Sam Twiston-Davies, one of the brightest lights in the National Hunt game.

Win or lose, I hope Big Buck’s runs his race, and comes home safe, with his head held high.

Even though he is the emperor of my heart, I do thrill to the good mare. You know how I feel about the mares. This morning, I gave Red a breeze. She was light as air, smooth as silk, so sweet and responsive that I really let her go. Out loud, in the cool Scottish air, I stood up in my stirrups, threw the reins at her, and cried: ‘Come on, Annie. Go, go.’ She went. As I slid off, and congratulated her, for her own private brilliance, I said, seriously: ‘You are my own little Annie Power.’ She blew through her nostrils. She nodded at me. She gave me her velvet nose to stroke. She knows. She ran round at the back on gaff tracks, but in her own mind, and in mine, she is the champion to end them all.

 

My own private Annie:

I dream of Big Buck’s

Today, a rare horse returns to the racecourse after over a year away.

Big Buck’s, a mighty, imperious fellow, left a huge gap. You could set your watch by him. He would turn up, three or four times a year, stroll around Cheltenham or Aintree or Newbury, make good horses look slightly sheepish, and then vanish again, leaving trails of glory in his wake.

Then, one day, he vanished altogether. Thoroughbreds are astonishingly tough, and vastly fragile, all at the same time. Big Buck’s, a huge, strong horse, showed he had an Achilles’ heel after all. A tendon went, and the racing world held its breath.

Today he returns, and nobody quite knows what will happen. It could be a coronation, as the emperor takes his throne; it could be a ghostly farewell. Some horses never come back from that sort of injury; some do, but are not the same. Their old form is a fleeting memory.

Big Buck’s has one of the best trainers in the business, a master at bringing horses back from long lay-offs. But the horse is eleven now, and he’s been off the track for a long time, and nobody knows what will be going through his horsey old head when he sees the great bowl that is Prestbury Park this afternoon. He is unbeaten in his last eighteen starts. He has shrugged aside fine horses in a canter. But today is the first time in a long time that the odds are against him. Timeform has run a wonderful, scientific examination of the statistics. The statistics say: not likely. At the end of the long, bloodless summation there is one, wonderful, human sentence. ‘But, he is Big Buck’s.’

If any of that diamond brilliance is still there, if he can pull this one off, Cheltenham will explode. All the hats will be in the air. There will be banshee rebel yells in this house, and certainly weeping. My fingers tremble as I type.

Whatever happens, I hope only that the big fella comes home safe. He has given so much joy. He owes nothing.

In his honour, I am reproducing here a piece I wrote about him just over two years ago, when he was in his pomp, so that you can see why my battered old racing heart is beating in my chest.

In December 2011, this is what I wrote:

To the greater glory of Big Buck's

My heart is actually pounding as I sit down to write. This is because I have just watched one of the greatest afternoon’s racing of my life, and the adrenaline is still coursing through me. I smile even as I think of it.

There is, in the world, a lovely, bonny horse called Big Buck’s. He is one of the great champions of a generation, a staying hurdler of such imperious talent that he makes good horses look quite ordinary. He jumps, he stays, he gallops; he answers every question asked of him with an emphatic yes.

He is trained by the brilliant Paul Nicholls, who also trains two of my other favourites, Master Minded and Kauto Star, and is ridden by Ruby Walsh. Walsh is, for my money, one of the finest jockeys riding today, perhaps one of the finest of any day, ever. He is poetry to watch. He has a curious stillness, an empathetic oneness with the creatures he rides. He very rarely boots a horse into a fence, as plenty of perfectly good jockeys do. Often, running into a fence, he sits quite, quite still, trusting the horse, communicating the stride almost through osmosis. It’s a beautiful thing to watch.

Anyway, today, Big Buck’s was bidding to win his fourteenth race on the trot. This is an extraordinary feat. It has only ever been done once before. Big Buck’s is a brilliant animal, but anything can happen in racing. There were some other hot contenders, the ground was testing; even though he was odds on, nothing was quite certain.

I wanted him to win so badly I could hardly watch. The Pigeon, catching my nervousness, prowled and paced about the room.

Big Buck’s went down to the start looking like a hero. He is a big horse, with powerful quarters, and great depth through the girth. (There are racing people who look for this; more room for the heart, they think.) He has a slightly old-fashioned look, like the horses my mother remembers from her youth.

Off they set. It was a long, gruelling contest. A smart grey called Dynaste was out in front, leaping over his hurdles like a cat. Big Buck’s stalked along in mid-division, waiting. Come on, come on, I muttered; steady, steady. Round the final bend, the grey was still out in front. Big Buck’s is so good that sometimes he looks as if he is not doing anything much; he can idle along, as if he is playing with his rivals, teasing them, almost. Ruby just had to shake him up a little.

And this is the glorious moment. Just one little shake of the reins, and the champion powers forward, as if someone has thrown a switch. Everyone else is suddenly scrubbing away, heads down. Ruby is looking up to the sky, as Big Buck’s saunters into the lead, collected as a show pony, certain as a stone. He wins in a canter. Ruby is patting his neck in congratulation three lengths before the winning post.

The great horse pricks his ears, raises his head, eases back to a trot, as if it all were a mere bagatelle. He is in his rightful place. He turns to acknowledge the roar of the crowd, who pay him his homage.

I don’t know why I find this so magnificent, but I do. It makes me cry actual tears of delight. In these daunting economic times, with political fury and fiscal meltdown, there is something so pure and wild and true about a really, really good horse.

My mother rings up. ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘We are lucky to be alive to see these horses.’

We are. There’s a bit of a golden age going on in racing at the moment, with the kind of horses who make history, who touch your heart, whom you know you will remember years afterwards. It is our great good fortune to witness it.

 

Back to 2013. At the end of that 2011 post, I put up a picture of The Pigeon. I was thinking of her last night and missing her sorely. Here she is again, still the sweetest canine I ever saw. Above her photograph, I wrote the following caption, as true today as it was then -

My very own little heroine:

A tale of two horses; or, dreams may come true

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Author's note: the good news is that I am feeling better after yesterday's seediness. The bad news is this means I have written an absurdly long racing post for you. So sorry about that.

 

Today, at Aintree, we may see history being made. I love it when history is made. I love it even more when it may be made by the mighty, magnificent Big Buck’s, one of the finest horses I ever saw in my life.

There is a point when superlatives become redundant. I want to get a wheelbarrow full of adjectives and shower them over this horse, but there isn’t really much point. His record, as the old sages say, speaks for itself. He is the first horse since Sir Ken, in the 1950s, to win sixteen jump races on the trot.

Not only that, but they have thrown all the superstars at him, the best horses of their generation, the quick and the brave and the good, and he just shrugs them off. At Cheltenham, last time out, the clever mare, Voler La Vedette, looked to be absolutely cruising coming over the second last. She was on the bridle, streaking up the hill. Big Buck’s had been in front for a while. Bloody hell, I thought, he’s going to get beat.

What was really interesting, watching the race over again, once the adrenaline had ebbed and I had stopped screaming my head off, is that Voler La Vedette did not stop or slow. It wasn’t that she ran out of steam. Neither did Big Buck’s put on a final spurt of speed. He did what he always does, which is shift into full Rolls Royce mode. His lengthening is so discreet that he makes it look as if everything else is going backwards, or running on the spot, whilst his awesome engine keeps powering to the line.

In that extraordinary contest, Simon Holt, one of the best callers of a race I have ever heard, suddenly shouted: ‘Big Buck’s is going to have to fight for the first time in his life’.

Yet, it was not really a fight. He had a serious challenger, certainly, and Ruby Walsh had to ask him a question or two. There have been times in the past when he has won so easily he looked as if he had gone to sleep half way through the race. Forget winning on the bridle, he won in a doze. So it is always a shock to see this titan being asked anything.

There was never a doubt that he would prevail, even with the bold mare nipping at his heels. She was finishing like a dervish, but the gelding always had her held. He pulled up, lifted his head, pricked his ears, well within himself, hardly out of breath. He was not strolling, but he was never flat to the boards.

I have said, every time I see him run, that we may never see his like again. It is racing, anything can happen. Even with a champion like this, you need luck in running. Nothing is ever nailed on. But if he wins today, I shall not only shout and scream and cry tears of joy (being never able to do a single thing by halves), I shall know for certain that he is the ultimate once in a lifetime horse.

If Big Buck’s is set to enter the halls of Valhalla, where he shall sit beside gods and kings and warriors, then the fairy tale of the meeting may be written by the astonishing Hunt Ball. I’m not sure if I have told you of him before, but his story is worth telling.

He was, reportedly, a ‘bag of bones’ when he was bought by dairy farmer Anthony Knott. Knott, who famously gets up at three each morning to milk his 260 cows, only agreed to buy the horse to support new trainer Keiran Burke, who had just started his career. Burke, who was a fine jockey, had to retire from riding after being kicked in the stomach by a young horse and rupturing his spleen. He is impossibly young, only twenty-six, and still has a very small string of horses, although what he lacks in numbers he makes up for in quality.

In other words, this motley trio is as far away from the five star operations of say, Nicky Henderson or Paul Nicholls, with their rich owners and their fleets of top-class animals. (That is not to take away anything from Nicholls or Henderson, who are brilliant men and deserve every inch of their success; it is just to illustrate how extraordinary the Hunt Ball story is.)

Hunt Ball himself, who has made up into a lovely, bonny, old-fashioned kind of chaser, started off with a handicap in the sixties. To give you a notion of how low that is, Kauto Star is rated at about 181. The handicapper gives each horse a number, according to how good she or he is, which then translates into how much weight they must carry.

The dream of the handicapper is that the ratings are so accurate that the horses pass the winning post in a straight line. This, of course, never happens, but even handicappers may dream.

Hunt Ball stared winning, at first at small tracks in small races, and then zoomed up the scale. By the time he was running at Cheltenham in March, he had gone up over eighty points in the handicap. This means, in real money, that he was judged to be eighty pounds better than when he started. It is an almost unheard–of feat. When he set off in the Pulteney Novice Chase, he was carrying twelve stone, giving away weight all round.

It was Cheltenham, possibly the toughest test of horse and rider. The lovely horse hunted round, with the sun on his back, enjoying himself, and won as he liked. He didn’t even have to be shaken up. He made the hill look like a stroll in the park. It was a beautiful sight to see.

Knott was beside himself. He is an emotional man, and has burst into tears before when being interviewed after a race. I love that about him. This time, he kept the tears at bay, but was all laughter and joy and exuberance. When asked if he would be getting up the next morning to do the cows, he said, live on television: ‘Bugger the cows’. (I think I may have told you that before, but it was my favourite moment at Cheltenham, better even than watching the machine that is Sprinter Sacre.)

Today, Hunt Ball is making a step up in class, going into a grade one race against the big boys. In the Betfred Bowl, where the horses all carry level weights, he will meet Riverside Theatre, who won at Cheltenham, Burton Port, fourth in the Gold Cup, and Medermit, who has finished in the money in every single one of his races this year. Diamond Harry and Carruthers have both won the Hennessy. It is do or die time.

If he can win, which I think he might, he will come from a starting mark of 69 at Folkestone to a grade one victory at Aintree, which is a bit like going from spam to caviar.

I would love to see him triumph so much that my fingers are shaking as I write this. In my rational head, I have a couple of reasons that I think the fairy tale is possible. Riverside Theatre, Burton Port and Medermit all had quite hard races at Cheltenham; Diamond Harry and Carruthers have yet to repeat their Hennessy form. Dear old Nacarat, the glorious grey who likes to gallop alone in front, is eleven years old, which may tell against him. By contrast, Hunt Ball won easily at Cheltenham, and is only seven.

He jumps like a stag, and really loves his racing; he has a great appetite for the game. According to his connections, he is jumping out of his skin.

The heart wants it, but the head too says the dream ending just might be possible. I’m going to have a tenner on him anyway, and at 3.05 this afternoon, you may imagine me hollering at the television screen, with the Pigeon barking encouragement. Go on, my son, we shall be roaring. Go on, my son.

 

No time for pictures now. Just a couple of my two beautiful boys. May they run well and come home safe.

 

Big Buck's, sadly uncredited. Look at the wonderful concentration from both horse and rider. And see how beautifully balanced Ruby Walsh is. I could watch that man ride all day long.

 

And here is Hunt Ball, by the wonderfully talented Edward Whitaker, for the Racing Post. Look at that horse, jumping for fun:

Cheltenham, Day Three. In which it all gets too much.

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Here is the thing I forget, every damn year: the agony. For something that is supposed to give so much pleasure, a thing I anticipate with so much impatience and excitement, Cheltenham is curiously painful. It’s not just when horses take brutes of falls, which I find harder and harder to watch as I get older and softer, it’s actually more that the ones I love, I love so much. I want them to win not because I have had a tenner on, or because it will fulfil some double or treble, but for sheer, undilute love.

This is perfectly ridiculous. I am forty-five years old. I spent my early years with a rough, tough old racing father. He wept like a baby over horses, but he would be out booting them over fences the next day. When he was betting, he was flinty as a Russian oil billionaire. He had no sentiment at all when it came to his wallet.

I think he greatly admired a really good horse; I remember watching Moscow Flyer with him, and seeing the pleasure light up his face, but I could not tell whether it was because he really loved the horse, or whether he had had a huge punt. Perhaps he knew that, after a lifetime spent watching horses, he could not allow himself to get emotionally involved with animals that were not his responsibility.

I, on the other hand, am a Saturday afternoon observer. I know and understand racing because it’s where I came from, but I also carry the fan-like tendency of the outsider. When I see a really good horse, jumping round for fun, I see aesthetics, and emotion, and high narrative. I get carried away by the guts and the glory. There are some horses that are really, really brave. They are the ones that will go for the gap, that will give their jockey that extra, magical something on the run-in, when it seems there is nothing left to give, when they are running on fumes. You sometimes see a horse win a race through sheer heart.

Even hardened racing people will say, with admiration, of one of those, ‘he’s a real trier’. On the excellent Channel Four, you will often hear John Francome, who is not a sentimentalist at all, say: ‘he runs his heart out, every time'.

Sheer talent is very thrilling too, in quite another way. When Sprinter Sacre won on Tuesday, it was because he was so stellar that he could simply stroll over his fences, never getting out of second gear. He has not yet had to show his heart, because he is so much better than his cohort. Watching him is like observing some freakish natural phenomenon; you can see the wild in him, his ancestral herd heritage. He was meant to run, very, very fast, and that is what he does.

In the first race yesterday, quite another kind of horse gave me a different kind of thrill. Teaforthree is a lovely, old-fashioned kind of chaser, a big, bonny, bold staying horse. He is honest as the day is long. He does not have that blinding brilliance of the really top class, but he is very, very good at what he does. Most of all, he seems to love it. He hunts round, with his ears pricked, absolutely at home on the racecourse.

He was running in a four mile chase, which is absurdly long, jumping twenty-four of those vast Cheltenham fences. He went off in the lead, leaping over the obstacles with a delightful combination of poetry and accuracy. I wanted him to win for love, because he is such a fine gentleman, and because he comes from a small yard which deserves its day in the sun, and for money too, because I had a tenner on him at 8-1.

He can’t stay in front the whole way round, I thought, not for four miles. He can’t go on jumping like that.

But you know what? He just did. He never put a foot wrong, and when his smiling Irish amateur rider asked him the question after the last, he lengthened his stride like the good old fella he is, and cantered gloriously up the hill. I shouted and roared and danced for joy. It was all jubilee, for that moment, in my house.

But the problem with all this is that I care far, far too much. When the bright novice Grand Crus got beat, I took it personally. When the brilliant and brave Sizing Europe could only finish second, after a very messy Champion Chase, I felt a raging fury. This was only compounded by a horrid cavalry charge of a hurdle race where there were three hideous falls. I suddenly felt disgusted with the whole business.

This idiot level of caring makes the beautiful victories much keener and sweeter. The other side of the coin is that when the one I love gets beat, or has no luck in running, or just does not run his race, as horses sometimes do not, I have a crushing, crashing sense of disappointment, which can linger for the rest of the day.

Today, Big Buck’s lines up for the World Hurdle. I want him to win so much that I can hardly speak. The wanting is so acute it is actually making me grumpy. I think: I’m not sure I can even watch the race. It will be too terrifying, too much agony. This is supposed to be a lovely afternoon at the races. Yet I shall be pacing about, literally or metaphorically hiding behind the sofa. I shall be quite tempted to leave the house altogether, and go for a nice walk with the Pigeon until the race is over.

The whole thing is too absurd for words. I cannot explain it. A shrink would probably have a field day with it. I sometimes wonder what it must be like to be one of those sanguine, calm people, who can let life roll off them. I know they exist. (It’s like the Organised People, whom I also observe with awe and wonder.)

On days like this, I rather yearn to know how they do it. A shrug of the shoulders, a wry smile, a philosophical sigh, and the thing is done. How very, very lovely that must be.

 

The wonderfully collected Teaforthree, on the far side, by Mark Cranham for the Racing Post:

And with a very happy JT McNamara, coming into the winning enclosure, by Getty Images:

The power and the glory that is Big Buck's, photograph uncredited:

If you are new to the blog, and have no idea about that mighty horse, and would like to know more, I have written about him before, here and here.

And now I really am stopping.

I should not give you any tips at all, after the drubbing I took yesterday, and today is such a difficult betting day that I am mostly going to keep my cash in my pocket. But I really do like Noble Prince for the very competitive Ryanair at 2.40. Although you could make a really good case for any one of eight of them. I'd love to see Somersby run a big race for Henrietta Knight too.

I have a tiny feeling for Cristal Bonus in the Jewson, but only a five quid at 5-1 feeling. Donald McCain's horses are on fire, and the favourite, Peddler's Cross, will run well.

Big Buck's is not a betting thing. He is 2-1 on. This means you have to put two pounds on to win one. Also, this is the toughest opposition he has faced yet, strength and depth. The Willie Mullins' horses are fancied, and Oscar Whisky, trained by the on fire Nicky Henderson, who had FOUR winners yesterday, is a terrifying danger. Just hope, and watch, and enjoy the brilliance.

If he does win, I shall cry shameless tears of joy.

In which I dream of Cheltenham

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

I can only apologise for two whole days with no blog. The road really wore me out this time. Sometimes the drive is dreamy and relatively easy; sometimes there is a moment at Dundee when I genuinely think I am not going to be able to make that last eighty miles and I shall have to call the nice people at the AA to tow me home. I really do not know how lorry drivers and commercial saleswomen do it.

Today, I attempted some kind of re-entry. There is no time for unpacking or any of that malarkey; my car remains filled with books, clothes, a saddle, and a selection of blankets, on which the poor Pigeon dozed on the long drive home, like the Princess and the Pea. (She really does hate travelling now, in her old age, and lies with a most grumpy and resigned look on her noble face.)

I did work. I spoke, in an organised manner to co-writer and agent. I pitched five different ideas for future projects. One of them, the one I most wanted and least expected to meet with approval, was greeted with interest and delight.

The Younger Brother called on the Skype. We shouted at each other over the computer, across the thousands of miles from the Far East to the Scottish East.

I thought, most of the day, about Cheltenham. I want so badly to write something stirring and glorious about it, here. Alistair Down did a lovely piece in the Racing Post a few days ago about the glory and the guts. I wanted to stir your blood and excite your viscera. (Really, if I cannot excite your viscera, I do not know what I am here for.)

But I’m a bit out of words after all that work and all that pitching. I can't quite summon the proper prose to give you a sense of what the thing is all about.

It’s like Christmas and Easter all rolled into one, which is a big, fat, rolling cliché, but true, all the same. I will not be able to sleep tonight for excitement.

Why is it so marvellous? It’s because of the crowd, of the magical setting, of the test of the course. Cheltenham is a rolling, undulating track, with a tough hill at the end. There are other, flatter tracks, where horses can get away with a little lack of stamina or heart. At Cheltenham, any weakness is exposed. To win at the festival, when all the best horses in Britain and Ireland are lined up, trained to the moment, requires something extra, something special, a combination of talent and determination and courage.

It is the fact that all the heroes are there: the finest horses, the great trainers, the most brilliant jockeys. It is the lovely, dreamy fact that even in that stellar gathering, the small operations get their chance. I’m not really sure why this is, perhaps just a matter of probability, with so many races being run in such a short time. Whatever it is, there is always a moment, each year, when an obscure trainer who does not have bags of cash and a string of equine stars, who probably gets up at five each morning to do the mucking out herself, who may have to see to the sheep or the cows before he looks to the horses, will have a shining moment in the sun. There is a keen sense of sporting chance this week, which appeals to the great British sense of fairness.

There is also the soaring beauty – of the place itself, of the animals who run there. The horses are just coming into their spring selves; some of them are as fit as they have ever been in their lives. Because of the sense of occasion, they come with their manes plaited and their tails brushed and their hooves oiled and their coats gleaming with health and promise. There are always a few vanity runs, one with little hope whose owners just yearn for a runner at the festival, and there is no law against that. But most of them will be the best of their cohort, the ones who are finely put together, who know how to jump and gallop and stay. This is not a selling plate at Thirsk, there are no mugs here. These horses are tested and tried.

It’s a bit of a favourites meeting this year. There are some defining superstars – Quevega, the brave, fast mare who carries the heart of Ireland; Hurricane Fly, a great Irish hurdler; Grand Crus, a young, brilliant chaser in his first season over fences; and the wild, unstoppable Sprinter Sacre, another novice, who races with all the fervour of a bronco on a high plain.

The majestic Big Buck’s is going for his fourth World Hurdle. Regular readers will know of my love for him. If he wins this week, he will equal the extraordinary record set by Sir Ken in the fifties, of sixteen victories in a row.

Although I hate betting on favourites, especially those that are odds on, even though my old dad always taught me to look for value, for the canny outsider, I want all those champions to win. Because I must have a bet, I have put them all into various complicated accumulators and yankees and patents and trebles. My William Hill account is ticking and humming.

And then, of course, there is Kauto Star. Today, the announcement was made that, after those terrifying doubts of last week, he will run in the Gold Cup. After my initial, streaming delight, I had to start preparing myself for the possible anti-climax. It is Cheltenham, anything could happen. He is twelve years old, and no horse that age has won the race in over forty years. The odds are that Long Run, his youthful challenger will have his day. But oh, oh, I dream the dream. I dream it with everything I have.

There was a lovely moment, when the news was announced, when Kauto was trending on Twitter worldwide. For a moment, he was the most famous horse in the entire world. My favourite tweet was from a Spanish source. It just said ‘Kauto Star – en plena forma’.

I too, am on plena forma. It’s CHELTENHAM. It’s my best damn week of the year. There may not be enough good words to describe it, but just imagine your most thrilling, giddy, glorious, absurdly delightful thing, and double it.

 

I seem to have managed to lose my camera battery charger, so there are no pictures today. Here are a few lovely horse shots, to get you in the mood.

Two lovely Kauto shots, both uncredited:

Big Buck's, being schooled by Ruby Walsh, wonderfully shot by the David Davies for the PA:

The green bowl of Prestbury Park, being watered in advance of the races, taken by the brilliant Alan Crowhurst for Getty Images:

I shall think of my old dad all week. He won the Kim Muir in 1959 on a horse called Irish Coffee. I wish I could find a photograph of it to show you, but I can't. You shall just have to imagine the old fella, with his baggy, white, old-fashioned breeches, his slightly cowboy-ish riding style, the wild, determined grin with which he rode, his faintly gritted teeth, roaring up the hill to the finishing post. I shall imagine the amazed delight, the shouts of the crowd, the vindicated exhaustion, the sheer, brilliant victory.

He did some nutty, eccentric, inexplicable things in his life. But he did some really, really great things too, and that was one of them.

Of mighty horses

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

It’s been a curious week. The economic news continues to swirl about the plughole of catastrophe. The argument about benefits and bonuses rages on, with no resolution. I have been thinking about, and missing, my dad.

This afternoon though, was very simple. It was the racing from Cheltenham. In these lurching times, I see more and more why racing is a perfect sport. It requires full concentration. You have to study the form and weigh the odds. It carries great qualities in both horses and jockeys: courage, determination, a refusal to give up, a staunchness of the heart.

It is aesthetic. The animals themselves are things of beauty; watching a really good horseman do his thing is also a delight for the eye. And there is a very pure joy in watching a fine thoroughbred doing what it was bred to do.

I had two great treats. The first was a horse called Midnight Chase. He is one of my old favourites; I have won money on him before. More than that, I admire him. He is a bold front-runner, and he really loves his jumping. He hunts round at the head of the pack, sure-footed as a stag. The doubt about him is that he doesn’t quite have the turn of foot to be in the very top class, and he was up against some very classy horses in the three mile Argento chase at Cheltenham.

Cheltenham is a demanding track: it undulates wildly, which can throw even very good horses off balance, and there is the famous hill, which finds out any lack of guts or stamina.

I had a tenner on dear old Midnight Chase, almost for sentimental reasons. Off he set in front, ears pricked, somehow both steady and joyous. The other horses came at him, but today was his day, and he shrugged them off, and kept galloping strongly up the hill, not to be denied.

It was an utterly lovely performance: as bold and true and genuine as you will ever see on a racecourse. I shouted and roared. The Pigeon, as is customary, leapt off the sofa and starting barking her head off. She is not a barker; she is a quiet, relaxed dog, nothing neurotic or noisy about her. But every Saturday, when we watch the racing, and I start yelling Come on, my son, The Pidge goes into a frenzy of excitement.

If it is a particularly close finish, she starts jumping vertically in the air, all four legs off the ground at the same time, like a cartoon dog. So the race ends up with me shouting at the screen and laughing at my dog. Then I ring up my mother and we say, in unison: ‘Oh, what a lovely horse.’

Then it was time for Big Buck’s. The regular readers will know I have written of this horse before. He is an astounding staying hurdler. He has won his last fourteen races on the trot, an outrageous and vanishingly rare feat. He is a big, beautiful, bold horse. At the moment, he is getting ready for the Cheltenham Festival in March, where he will go to defend his World Hurdle crown.

The idea, at this stage, was that he would go and have a racecourse gallop. This is when the trainer, instead of just working the horse on the gallops at home, takes him to a local course, and gives him a breeze over actual racing fences. If it is a great horse like Big Buck’s, a small crowd of forty or fifty people will gather to watch.

However, not long ago, a little boy went up to the owner of Big Buck’s and asked for the horse’s autograph. (The very thought of this makes my sentimental eyes well up; the idea of the small chap with his ardent, youthful love for a racing star.) So, the owner, Andy Stewart, decided that the public deserved to see the horse, and entered him today at Cheltenham.

It was a generous thing to do. The horse is not up to his peak of fitness; there was the danger of terrible anti-climax. Essentially, he was doing a piece of work in public. If he were ever going to get beat, it was today.

I wanted him to win his fifteenth race in a row so badly I could hardly watch. I have no idea where this yearning imperative comes from. I have no connection to the horse, owner, trainer; they are all strangers to me. Yet I want it as if they were family. I think it is a salute to magnificence. It is quite unusual to see pure, untrammelled brilliance, in any area of life. I love to watch it, in all its simple glory.

So, off they went. There were some sharp, talented horses in the field. A couple of them roared off in front, obviously hoping to burn off the champion.

At one stage, Big Buck’s was ten or twelve lengths off the pace. He was lobbing along, jumping his hurdles neatly, almost dismissively. There was a terrible moment when they rounded the final bend, and he was still a long way back. He seemed to be doing nothing. I always forget that he does this in his races; he gets so relaxed he seems completely switched off, and you think he is going nowhere. Ruby Walsh shook him up a bit; still nothing. Oh God, I thought, today will be the famous day when Big Buck’s gets beat.

Then, suddenly, the mighty engine roared into life. It’s a fascinating thing to watch. It’s not a wild burst of acceleration, as some horses show when they come from back in the field. It’s a smooth, sustained unfurling of pure power. It’s like a Rolls Royce.

It’s not so much that Big Buck’s appears to be going forward, it’s that all the other horses look as if they are going backward. He reels them in, strolls past them, he is going, going, going, gathering all that beauty and brilliance into an unstoppable momentum. By the time he gets to the line, seven lengths in front, he has stamped inevitability all over the race. The monarch has asserted his class; he seems to take his place as if by divine right.

I whoop, I weep, I holler. The Pigeon leaps and barks. There is an electric burst of adrenaline and joy in the room. Everything else is forgotten. It is like a little, existential gift.

We go out into the gloaming and look at the hills, blue in the fading light. Everything is quite still. I replay the race in my head. I feel amazingly grateful for the high gloriousness of a really, really good horse, in his pomp. I am fortunate to have witness such a stirring sight.

I don’t believe in afterlives. But since I am in a magical mood, I wonder if, somewhere, my old galloping father is smiling.

 

Pictures of the day, in the blue afternoon light:

And talking of magnificent things of beauty:

The hill:

 

PS. Apologies for wild switches in tense. This is the kind of thing I tell my writing students not to do. I get so excited when I write about the racing that all grammatical rules go out of the window, and I'm too tired now to go back and correct the thing. I know the Dear Readers will understand. It is the literary equivalent of throwing one's hat in the air, which the crowds today at Cheltenham literally did.

To the greater glory of Big Buck's

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

My heart is actually pounding as I sit down to write. This is because I have just watched one of the greatest afternoon’s racing of my life, and the adrenaline is still coursing through me. I smile even as I think of it.

There is, in the world, a lovely, bonny horse called Big Buck’s. He is one of the great champions of a generation, a staying hurdler of such imperious talent that he makes good horses look quite ordinary. He jumps, he stays, he gallops; he answers every question asked of him with an emphatic yes.

He is trained by the brilliant Paul Nicholls, who also trains two of my other favourites, Master Minded and Kauto Star, and is ridden by Ruby Walsh. Walsh is, for my money, the finest jockey riding today, perhaps the finest of any day, ever. He is poetry to watch. He has a curious stillness, an empathetic oneness with the creatures he rides. He very rarely boots a horse into a fence, as plenty of perfectly good jockeys do. Often, running into a fence, he sits quite, quite still, trusting the horse, communicating the stride almost through osmosis. It’s quite a beautiful thing to watch.

Anyway, today, Big Buck’s was bidding to win his fourteenth race on the trot. This is an extraordinary feat. It has only ever been done once before. Big Buck’s is a brilliant animal, but anything can happen in racing. There were some other hot contenders, the ground was testing; even though he was odds on, nothing was quite certain.

I wanted him to win so badly I could hardly watch. The Pigeon, catching my nervousness, prowled and paced about the room.

Big Buck’s went down to the start looking like a hero. He is a big horse, with powerful quarters, and great depth through the girth. (There are racing people who look for this; more room for the heart, they think.) He has a slightly old-fashioned look, like the horses my mother remembers from her youth.

Off they set. It was a long, gruelling contest. A smart grey called Dynaste was out in front, leaping over his hurdles like a cat. Big Buck’s stalked along in mid division, waiting. Come on, come on, I muttered; steady, steady. Round the final bend, the grey was still out in front. Big Buck’s is so good that sometimes he looks as if he is not doing anything much; he can idle along, as if he is playing with his rivals, teasing them, almost. Ruby just had to shake him up a little.

And this is the glorious moment. Just one little shake of the reins, and the champion powers forward, as if someone has thrown a switch. Everyone else is suddenly scrubbing away, heads down. Ruby is looking up to the sky, as Big Buck’s saunters into the lead, collected as a show pony, certain as a stone. He wins in a canter. Ruby is patting his neck in congratulation three lengths before the winning post.

The great horse pricks his ears, raises his head, eases back to a trot, as if it all were a mere bagatelle. He is in his rightful place. He turns to acknowledge the roar of the crowd, who pay him his homage.

I don’t know why I find this so magnificent, but I do. It makes me cry actual tears of delight. In these daunting economic times, with political fury and fiscal meltdown, there is something so pure and wild and true about a really, really good horse.

That one was for love. The price was far too short for gambling; the only thing was to watch in awe and wonder. Afterwards, I put my punting boots on, and had a swift thirty quid on Ruby again, with a lovely chaser called The Minack.

He made my afternoon by running his heart out in a tough staying chase, a picture of honesty and courage. There is a thing racing people say about horses who really try, who don’t give up, who respond to their jockey when the chips are all the way down. They say: oh, he is genuine. The Minack is genuine. (And he won me a hundred smackers, for which I gratefully thank him.)

My mother rings up. ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘We are lucky to be alive to see these horses.’

We are. There’s a bit of a golden age going on in racing at the moment, with the kind of horses who make history, who touch your heart, whom you know you will remember years afterwards. It is our great good fortune to witness it.

And now I am going out for tea. My sister has six enchanting Americans staying at her house, and I am going to eat cake with them. I shall try very, very hard, not to be a racing bore. I don’t want them going back to California thinking that all Britons are crazed gamblers who can only talk of the 2.30 at Ascot.

 

Only four very quick pictures today, as I am running late:

The glorious Big Buck's, photographer unknown:

My very own little heroine:

And a rather blue hill: