Bugger the cows; or, in which I find my one good thing in a slightly unexpected place

The writer brain and the dog brain have an argument.

The writer brain says: ‘Go on, give them something really good today. Give them some dancing prose. Turn a phrase, why don’t you?’

The dog brain says: ‘Are you mad? It’s as much as I can do to put my socks on.’

The writer brain says: ‘Yes, yes. But you could be poetical about it. You don’t want this turning into a misery memoir.’ (You should imagine this last being said in tones as dark as pitch.)

The dog brain whimpers and goes to hide behind the sofa.

I sometimes think I admit too much to all the different voices in my head. I imagine students of psychology reading this and nodding knowingly and diagnosing multiple personality disorder. But I am grateful to the voices. They keep me up to scratch.

The writer brain has, I discover, the famous sliver of ice at its heart of which Graham Greene wrote. Even in a season of grief it is still saying: write it well. It is not at all sure that I should be recounting all this (can’t you tell them something amusing? it says, crossly), but if it cannot stop me, it at least insists that I pay attention to the sentences. You can’t just hurl undifferentiated sorrow at a page, it sincerely believes; you must shape it and craft it and make it worth something.

The dog brain is too sad to worry about any of that. It just hopes that there are other people out there, on Dog Island, understanding what it is on about.

I maintain my morning routine. I go up to spend gentle time with my mare. She does her touching, daily thing of standing quietly next to me, resting her head against me, and letting me be. I am pretty calm. I find her sweet, still presence amazingly soothing. I think how lucky I am that she chooses me. She could walk away at any time; she is not tethered. But she decides that the place she wants to rest is by my side. Just as I am feeling reassured by this, a wave of missing hits. I remember this too, from last year. There are small stretches of normality, of being almost fine, and then - whack crash boom smash - out of a clear blue sky it comes.

I lean against the mare’s neck, making idiot wailing sounds. She is a fine thoroughbred, with all the temperament of her ancient breeding; she can be startled by a cow moving four fields away. She has a princess and the pea aspect to her, in that way. But this horrid noise does not faze her. She stands, staunch and stalwart, and takes it. I think: what great stroke of fortune sent me this miracle horse.

I go then to the newsagent to get the dear Stepfather’s paper. My favourite news lady is in. I have been slightly dreading seeing her, because she is on Dog Island too, and we have talked in the past about our delight in our canines, and I would have to say the words out loud, and whenever I do that my voice breaks and I find it hard to speak coherently.

She asks how I am. I tell her.

‘Very sad,’ I say. ‘I had to put my lovely girl down.’

She nods. She tells me that she had to do the same for her old lady, three weeks ago.

‘Oh,’ I say, ‘I am so sorry’.

Tears shoot out of her eyes. We stand there, in the tiny shop, talking of our dear departed.

‘Look what I’ve done now,’ I say, trying to make a little joke; ‘I’ve made you cry at work.’

Luckily the shop is empty. She wipes her eyes and describes a watery smile. The other newsagent looks serious. ‘I haven’t dared mention it,’ she says.

My favourite news lady says she doesn’t think she can get another dog, because her heart is too broken and she is not sure she can go through all this again.

I had been wondering about this myself. Last night, wandering about on the Facebook, I found a clutch of beautiful black Labrador puppies for sale. I suddenly terribly wanted one. In fact, I don’t actually want a lab; I like the collie cross of my girls. I like mutts, in general. I have an odd prejudice against pure breeds. With that particular cross, you get all the sweetness of the Labrador with all the cleverness of the collie. You avoid the problems of in-breeding. So this sudden desire was slightly surprising.

In the absolute irrational spaces of my mind, I think that I can’t get another dog yet, partly because, like the news lady, I am too bashed up to contemplate the love and the loss, and partly out of respect. This last is very nutty indeed. The dogs are gone, into wherever it is that the departed go; racing free over some celestial prairie, or in a parallel universe (I have lately been thinking about the several worlds theory of physics), or just in the dark of non-existence. They really, really would not mind. But I mind. I mind like hell. They are not replaceable. A space is demanded; respect must be paid.

My fingers pause over the keyboard. The writer brain shakes its head. I have not been poetical, or turned much of a phrase. Someone, somewhere, is going to ask for their money back, and they would have a case. Outside my window, the thick amber autumn sun comes out from the clouds, and brings the beeches to singing life. Everything is very quiet. I cast around for my daily good thing. Every day, there must be One Good Thing.

Luckily, there really is one today. Yesterday, I told you of the lovely racehorse Hunt Ball. Part of the reason that his story is so touching is that he really was not bred for greatness. He was not one of those prancing French horses that bloodstock agents buy for hundreds of thousands of pounds; he cost, as his owner told the Racing Post, about the same as a second-hand car. He is not owned by a corporate titan or trained by a household name.

But it turned out that he did not know he was not supposed to be a star. He jumps and gallops as if he were destined for glory; he has a wonderful zest for racing, and a lion heart. In recognition of this, Fontwell racecourse has done a really rather eccentric thing. It is having a Hunt Ball day. The horse will parade in front of the stands, all the races will be named after him and his connections, and if your surname is Hunt or Ball they are going to let you in for free. I think this is one of the sweetest and funniest things I ever heard.

The other reason people have warmed to this horse is because of his owner, Anthony Knott. Knott regularly bursts into tears in his post-race interviews. He hugs the presenters, laughs uproariously, speaks without shame of his love and pride in his great, galloping horse.

After Hunt Ball fulfilled the ultimate dream of storming up the Cheltenham Hill, Knott was asked if he would be getting up at dawn as usual to milk his cows.

‘Bugger the cows,’ he said, live, on national television. (You should imagine this in a lilting west country accent.)

Today, on Twitter, as people talk about the Fontwell day, they are exclaiming ‘bugger the cows’. It is making me laugh a lot. It is, without doubt, my One Good Thing of the day.

 

Today’s pictures:

Are mostly of trees:

Myfanwy the Pony:

Red the Mare. This is her moochy face, which she does when she ambles across the field to stand by my side. I love this face:

Pigeon, from the archive. I love this face too:

The wonderful Hunt Ball, with his smiling owner on the right:

Photograph by Tom Jenkins for The Guardian.

And in glorious action. See how he points his toe:

Photograph by the very talented Edward Whitaker for the Racing Post.

Rather blurry hill:

One step forward, one step back

I remember this now, from last year. One step forward, one step back. Yesterday, with all the excitement of the election, I had a glimmering flash of normality. This is what I shall feel like when my heart no longer aches in my chest. I felt hopeful, and rather stupidly pleased with myself. I can do this thing; I can get everything into perspective and not be sunk. Watch me, marching myself back to fine.

Then, today, there was a bit of a crash. I went out to take a picture of the beech avenue. The beeches are so magnificent this year, and the sun is out, and the autumn colours are to real to be true. The Dear Readers, I thought, slightly dizzily, in my antic head, love the beech avenue; I can give them that nice treat at least, since they have to put up with all my weeping and wailing.

I took the picture. The avenue looked quite ravishing. I’ll just walk up there, I thought. I’ll walk under those venerable old trees and look at the colours. And then I got a flash of a little black ghost, trotting away in front of me, and I could not do it. Couldn’t do it.

I went back into the house and made some soup. All I have done since Friday is make soup. Chicken soup first, of course, of course, as the two ladies I think of as my Jewish and my Italian mammas came out and rolled up their sleeves. I have no idea if those stereotypes really are true. I bet there are millions of Italian and Jewish mothers who have never made a pot of soup in their lives, but the awful thing is that is what I always think, when I am attempting to heal existential wounds through cooking. I’m the one who is endlessly banging on about not generalising or making assumptions, and yet there I go.

After the chicken soup, I move on to leek. A lovely simple pale green soup, with a little onion and a handful of watercress, for strength. Today, it is mushroom soup, black and earthy and tasting very strongly of itself.

Every so often I think, furiously, despairingly, like a child: I want my dog back.

Come along, says my sensible voice, ushering me gently on through the day; come along. There’s no call for that.

Other things are happening. The poor stepfather has smashed up his knee and is in plaster. My sister had to have a rather serious operation, and calls me, dopey with morphine, from her hospital bed. Even after having two surgeons go at her, she still finds the time to read the blog and send me heartening little emails of love.

The Older Brother actually sits down and writes a letter.

It arrived yesterday. I heard the postman and went to the door. Usually, there is a muddle of paper on the floor; periodicals and flyers and charity letters and bills. Instead, there was just one pristine envelope, Smythson’s finest, in deep cornflower blue. He managed to include Paddy Leigh-Fermor, Lucien Freud and our eccentric Irish uncle, all in one letter. (Freud loved his dogs.) It was funny and touching and clever and I was rather overwhelmed that he took the time.

I do one small piece of work. I run errands. I even read a bit of the paper, in an attempt to keep up with world affairs.

For a special treat, I get a copy of the Racing Post, and read about one of my favourite horses in the world, the magnificent Hunt Ball, whose rags to riches story always brings me delight.

He started off in very ordinary handicaps, trained in a small yard, owned by a dairy farmer who gets up at four-thirty every morning to milk his cows. Over the course of last season, Hunt Ball, a big, bonny fellow, romped round course after course, winning race after race, with the handicapper puffing after him. He went from a mark of 69 to one of 157 in one year, skipping round Cheltenham for his last win under top weight. It was possibly the most popular victory of the whole festival.

Now it has been announced that he is going for the big guns, the King George and the Gold Cup. If that dream comes true, then all of racing will die of joy.

I look at the smiling face of Anthony Knott, his owner. I think: that man really knows how to chew the marrow out of life.

I think: I have been writing this blog for half the morning and I have absolutely no idea what I am talking about. Free expression is one thing; incoherent rambling is quite another.

I think: go slowly, one foot in front of another.

I think: at least that lovely sun is shining.

I think: I really, really miss my dog.

 

Today’s pictures:

The colours were so outrageous up at Red’s View that I could only blink in disbelief:

My little band:

The good companions:

They are such an unlikely pair, the roly-poly little Welsh pony and the aristocratic thoroughbred mare, but they are absolutely devoted to each other.

Myfanwy the Pony:

Red the Mare:

She is continuing her Plan of Ultimate Sweetness. She stood beside me for half an hour this morning, just contemplating, resting her cheek on my arm, bending her head round so I could rub her forehead. She can be spooky and flighty, when the mood is in her and the wind is up, but at the moment she is like the rock of ages.

Pigeon, from the archive:

There are a lot of things about her I miss; the funniness, the adoring gaze, the undimmed enthusiasm. But one of the things of which I feel most deprived is the sheer beauty. Every day, I got to rest my eyes on something lovely. I miss my aesthetic fix.

The avenue, down which I could not walk:

The hill, from a slightly different angle than usual:

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:

First day of Cheltenham, interrupted

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

I was sitting down to write the blog after an extraordinary first day at Cheltenham, when – smack, shudder, sizzle, flash – all the lights went off, with a very scary flickering effect. The speakers attached to the computer made the most terrible wailing noise. I went outside. There was a fire in the beech avenue. A tree branch had come down, scythed through our power line, which was severed and slithering free on the ground. One of the cows was electrocuted. It was awful.

So, no computer, no lights, no nothing. I pulled myself together, lit all the candles, and gathered the family around. The Younger Niece is here, with the Man in the Hat, and the Landlord and The International Traveller drove down, and we drank Guinness and built up the fire and mourned the poor old cow.

The amazing men from the Scottish Hydro Electric drove out like princes to the rescue, and put up arc lights, and worked all night to fix the thing. So, suddenly, the power is back on, and I must give you a blog.

I wanted to tell you the whole story of the day, but I am too tired now.

There were many extraordinary moments. Perhaps the greatest was watching the young novice, Sprinter Sacre, saunter round the difficult course at Cheltenham as if he were out for a training gallop.

Some people said he would not go up the hill. He made the hill look like it was for amateurs. He never came off the bridle. He is a big, bonny, old-fashioned looking sort of horse, dark bay, with big ears and an honest head. He is the great, shining star of the future. When the mighty Kauto retires, we have another champion to make the hairs on the back of the neck stand up. He has so much raw talent that it is like watching an elemental force of nature.

Perhaps the happiest story was in the last. There is a lovely horse called Hunt Ball, who started off the season at a very low rating, in the sixties. To give you a comparison, Kauto Star is rated at 180. Hunt Ball is trained by a young trainer, in a small yard. His owner is not a storied aristocrat or a moneyed plutocrat; he is a dairy farmer from Dorset, who gets up at four every morning to see to the cows. He is famous for whooping and crying in the winning enclosure; once, he even leapt on the horse himself, and rode him back to the winner’s circle. (The stewards crossly fined him one hundred pounds. He didn’t care. The crowd didn’t care. The horse appeared to love it.)

Since the autumn the lovely, honest Hunt Ball has gone up 73 points. This is almost unprecedented; that much improvement is quite stellar. The thought today was that the handicapper had caught up with him; he was going over the two and half miles with twelve stone on his back. I had a heart over head bet of a tenner, at 8-1. That is a hell of a top weight, to lug over those huge fences, and up that unforgiving incline. I backed him through a sheer want for him to win.

The horse jumped like a stag all the way round, eased into the lead at the second last, and galloped home, ears pricked, to the absolute delight of everyone watching.

It was not one of the championship races; it was the final contest on the card, when some people have gone home. But the exhilaration of the connections was so infectious, and  everyone there seemed to know this rags to riches story, so that he got the biggest cheer of the day by far. The good Cheltenham crowds recognised true loveliness when they saw it. They rose as one; the farmer threw his arms in the air with sheer joy; the horse lifted his head in salute. It was one of the finest things I ever saw.

Hunt Ball, by Tom Jenkins for the Guardian. Very happy owner on the right:

Glorious picture by Edward Whitaker:

Sprinter Sacre, on his way to dominate the Arkle:

Red the Mare is on the road. Arrives Thursday. Can hardly believe it. It is all equines with me, just now.