A good man and a good woman, in a slightly unexpected juxtaposition.

Quite often in these pages, I write the sentence: ‘Another of the good old men has gone’.

Well, another of the good old men has gone.

The strange thing is that I was not going to write of it. Last night, as the news came in, I suddenly felt that the internet had got it all wrong. The wisdom of crowds can be magnificent at times like this. There is a touching communal outpouring, a coming together in regret. Passings are marked well, with restraint and elegance.

But I found something curiously grating about the response to Nelson Mandela’s death. There was a faint whiff of bandwagon-jumping, of one-upmanship, of sentimentality. Some of the things that were written were good and true and heartfelt, but some hit a false note. It was not just that idiotic spats broke out, between people of different political kidneys. It was not just that the Ukippers started singing their ugly song. It was that a morbid competition arose – who was saddest, who knew him best, who referred to him as Madiba rather than Mandela, in a rather proprietary way.

I felt not sad, but cross. I went into a fugue-like silence. I could not join in this untrammelled effusion.

When very great public figures die, the newness of the social networks are thrown into vivid relief. The etiquettes and the mores have not quite been worked out yet. If you do say something, on the Twitter or the Facebook, it can sound a little forced and phoney. Look at me, minding. If you say nothing, you have a heart of stone. The balance between the two is finely poised. I could not find the balance.

I had nothing to say. I went to bed, dry-eyed.

This morning, I told my mother. She did not know. Her power is still out. She has no news.

Then I did the morning chores, fed the horses, and returned to the kitchen to make hot soup for my cold, stranded, powerless mum. I put on the radio. Clare Balding was on Desert Island Discs. She was being funny and self-deprecating and human. And then she spoke of the time she was treated for cancer, and how she and her partner dealt with it, and this most articulate woman suddenly lost her words. Her voice cracked and broke, and there was that rarest thing on the wireless: silence.

It was that moment that unzipped my heart, and restored my humanity. So I stood, in a Scottish kitchen, making soup with split peas and barley, weeping for a great old gentleman and a brave woman, both. Then, not long afterwards, someone played Something Inside So Strong by Labi Siffre, and that was that. That song makes me teary at the best of times; today it finished me off.

Sorrowing for the loss of someone you do not know is a curious thing. Nelson Mandela did not belong to me. He was not my president or my grandfather or my friend. But perhaps the very great ones belong to everyone. Perhaps he really was that most unlikely of things: a true citizen of the world. And that was why everyone rushed to the Facebook and the Twitter, because he meant something to them and they wanted to give that meaning voice. They wanted to do something.

In my teenage years, my cohort had three heroes. They were an oddly assorted bunch. They were Che Guevara, Lech Walesa and Nelson Mandela. Everyone had Che pictures and Solidarity posters on their walls; everyone played Free Nelson Mandela by The Specials until the vinyl was worn thin. (We are back in the days of records, now.) Che, it turned out as we grew older and wiser, was a bit of a dodgy hero, and we were perhaps taken in by his great beauty. He looked as a revolutionary should look. Walesa and Mandela did not. They did not have the flowing hair and the romantic aura and the motorbikes. Walesa was a stocky fellow, who looked like a farmer. Mandela, from the old pictures before he came out of prison, was a solid man with a boxer’s face, nothing fey or fanciful about him. There were no Guevara sculpted cheekbones, no perfect profile, no dashing rebel hat. But those two unlikely bedfellows were shining beacons for the ideological teen in the raw and rampant eighties.

The really astonishing thing about Nelson Mandela was that he proved even more remarkable in life than he was in our young imaginations. He was unseen for so many years, and he went into the realm of myth. Usually, such humans are a crashing disappointment when they return to the theatre of the real. Few can live up to that weight of ardent expectation. But on that day when Mandela made the long walk to freedom, emerging at last into the bright South African light, he spoke not of vengeance or hatred but of forgiveness and peace. It was not just rhetoric: for every day afterwards he lived up to those words, steadily put thought into action. He turned out to be worthy of the burden of hero-worship placed on his shoulders, which may be the most extraordinary thing of all.

I really was not going to write about this today. I thought: everyone knows what they think, and everyone knows what they feel. My paltry scratches on a page mean nothing. A good old man has gone, and in some odd way it feels like a private thing, for all his public renown.

It was Clare Balding who made me do it. She was the one who made me cry and unlocked the door. (As I write this I am laughing, because it is such an unexpected juxtaposition. But sort of perfect too.)

Despite this, I still have a sense of hesitation, even of impropriety. Then I remember something else I always say here. Which is: the thing must be marked. That is why humans plant trees in remembrance or lay flowers or stand in silence. In my case, most often, the marking is made in my beautiful hills. It is in their eternal blue that I find solace and proportion. I drove into them today, as the sun shone again after the violent storms. To the west, Morven was entirely white. The tips of the silver birches were scarlet in the light and the air was high and thin with the promise of snows to come.

I looked out over this beloved country, and marked the thing which must be marked. On the way home, the South African national anthem came on the radio. I smiled. Everyone, I thought, does their remembrance in their own way, and that is exactly how it should be.

 

Today’s pictures:

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.

In which I apologise to Clare Balding. Or, a small cautionary tale.

Yesterday, I found myself in a little Twitter storm which is so illustrative of the perils of the internet that I am going to tell you the whole story.

It does not start well. I fear that I may have hurt the feelings of one of Britain’s most beloved broadcasters. Yes, even I, always banging on about good manners and kindness, may have not lived up to the standards I set myself.

Here is how it happened.

Channel 4 were showing the racing. I tweet a lot when the racing is on, partly out of excitement, partly to deal with big race nerves, and partly because I am still unsettled with the new coverage. Because the adrenaline is running, I type fast, and sometimes press send before I have thought carefully what it is I say.

As I was making my usual complaint that we do not get to see enough of the horses themselves, particularly in the paddock, two other Twitterers joined in. They were not people I know, but they shared my sense of loss for the old Channel 4 team, and soon we were in an orgy of regret for the departure of John Francome and Alistair Down.

One of them objected, in quite personal terms, to the choice of Clare Balding as the new front-woman for the show. I said that I like her as a broadcaster, which is absolutely true, but think that she is a generalist. By this I mean that she has a wide knowledge of all different kinds of sport, and works in a range of different mediums. (On a very personal level, what I crave from Channel 4 is a tight focus on specialist racing knowledge.)

However, in context, the whole Twitter chat came across as an ad hominem objection to Balding herself. I spend days twisting myself up like a pretzel to avoid ad hominem. So I was already started to feel uncomfortable, when Balding herself entered the conversation. I work hard, she said, and try to get people interested in racing.

Oh God, I thought. This is what happens when the internet flies too fast and tempers get heated. It can be forgotten that there are real people out there, with real feelings, who are only doing their jobs. I imagine that anyone in public life gets more slings and arrows than any human deserves, now that the green ink brigade has gone viral.

I was overcome with crushing angst. I sent Balding what I hoped was a polite tweet saying that all I too wanted was for more people to be interested in racing, and emphasised that really what I was crying out for was a view of the horses in the paddock. (This is an editorial decision, and absolutely not her fault.)

And here is the amazing thing. She tweeted back at once, saying that she would mention it, and that it might be possible once they were covering fewer races. I am a complete stranger, howling and yowling out on the prairies of the internet, and yet she took the time and trouble to reply.

How is that for grace?

The problem is that she was so generous and well-mannered that my angst only grew. I was now convinced that I had behaved badly and unfairly. I could not get the thing out of my head. I woke up this morning worrying about it.

So here is my own question for the day. It is: how may one object, without being objectionable?

I love racing with an unbridled passion. I loved the old Channel 4 team, and spent so much time with them that they felt like family. It’s a slightly peculiar thing to say, but it’s true. I loved that Alistair Down could recall every single Cheltenham since he was a boy. I loved that John Francome could tell you that an ordinary horse down the handicap had run a blinder on a wet Wednesday at Wetherby. Francome in particular wore his knowledge so lightly that it was easy to overlook how profound it was.

I am still a bit raw from the sudden change, and in danger of taking it personally. Channel 4 Racing, after all, does not exist just to serve me. Not everyone is a racing geek, and perhaps not everyone does need to know what happened in a mid-week card at Wetherby.

Where Clare Balding is brilliant is in her ability to translate the language of racing for a wider audience. She knows the world inside out, having grown up in it, and she knows the people. She is also an ultimately professional and accomplished broadcaster, who can take anything that a live programme throws at her.

It’s all very well, my yelping like a scalded dog, every time the programme does something I do not like. But this small episode reminded me that there is a danger, in this rushing internet age, of developing a nasty sense of entitlement. It is too easy for me to throw my toys out of the pram, and take to Twitter to shout and scream and set my hair on fire. Perhaps it is not a very edifying thing to do. My new resolution is to think before I tweet. Because, much as I hate to admit it, it really is not all about me.

Clare Balding is far too busy to read an obscure blog like this. But just today, I really wish she were one of the Dear Readers. Because I would like to say sorry. And to thank her for reminding me of a valuable lesson in manners.
 
Today’s pictures:

Too dull and snowy today to take out the camera. So here is a random selection from the last few days:















Autumn the Filly:



Myfanwy the Pony:



Can’t resist the free-schooling pictures:





Red the Mare, living up to her name in the winter sun:





Stanley the Dog enjoying some top ball action:





The hill, from a sunnier day: