Happy Day

I’ve been doing a little Facebook experiment. It is called 100 Happy Days, and the idea is that every day you post something that makes you happy. It sounds very hello clouds, hello sky, but I think it is in fact quite an interesting psychological test.

I am capable of grumpiness and crankiness; I grow fretful over trifles; I am sometimes assailed by fears of the unknown future. I wrestle with mortality and the growing numbers of the Dear Departeds. (I am missing my dear old godfather a lot at the moment, and, as Cheltenham approaches, holding my late father very close to my heart.)

The lovely thing is that this idea makes me realise that even on the darkest day there is at least one happy thing, even if it is only a snowdrop or a pied wagtail or the soft eye of the red mare.

Today, there were not single spies of joy, but battalions.

The sun shone, for a starter. It really shone, with conviction and promise. The birds were singing, the woodpeckers were hammering away in the woods, the new grass was growing, to the mare’s delight.

In the morning, I found my one happy thing. It was a dilly. One of the great old cowboys, I can’t remember whether it was Tom Dorrance or Ray Hunt, said that the thing you are always looking for with your horse is that place deep inside where everything is possible, where there is only willingness. This is quite a profound thought, and sometimes feels almost metaphysical to me. It is nothing to do with technique and everything to do with heart and feel.

I thought about it with the mare this morning. I was doing some circles with her. She tends to lean in and drop her shoulder and sometimes a simple circle can be hard work. Today, though, something blossomed and spread. She started going easily within herself, in the most ravishing, smooth, floating sitting trot, describing a perfect line, so light that I was riding her with one finger. ‘There’s that place,’ I thought. I felt it in myself, deep in my gut. I felt my place of willingness and her place of willingness speak to each other, so that we found a harmony that was like flying. Hold on, I thought: THERE IT IS. There it is.

It was a feeling like no other. It transcended the actual and the physical and soared up into a realm of its own.

I was so ecstatic that I raced her out of the circle into a straight canter, as if we ourselves were roaring up the Cheltenham hill. I whooped out loud. ‘Woo, woo,’ I shouted. ‘You absolutely brilliant girl.’

You should not really be letting a thoroughbred canter about on a loose rein whilst whooping in their ear. The red mare kept her composure. She put on her sprinting shoes for a moment, and then came back under me, and gentled to a steady halt. She lifted her pretty face to the sky, and blew through her nostrils. I must not get fanciful, but I think she was as happy as I was.

That moment would have been enough. But then I went up to HorseBack for the first course of the year. The place was transformed. All the horses were in, the sun was still going like gangbusters, a wonderful group of Personnel Recovery Officers were gathered, Brook the ex-sprinter was doing a hoof-perfect demonstration, and, best of all, some of the regular veterans were back for a three-week stint.

My admiration for the veterans knows no bounds. It’s not just that they have done sterling service in places and situations I cannot even imagine, or that they face startling mental and physical challenges with stoicism and good humour, it is that they are so funny and generous, and very nice to me. I’ve got over my initial shyness, that sense of distance between the experience of a civilian and the experience of those who have served. They mob me up now, and make me shout with laughter. They think I am a bit crackers, as one of them said today, I suspect because of my ridiculous passion for horses, and my betting habit, and my Cheltenham obsession, and my tendency to open my mouth and let streams of nonsense issue forth. I take this as a big compliment. Coming from fighting men, crackers is good.

It was so lovely to see real work starting again, and all the people gathered, new faces and familiar faces, and the dear equines getting ready to do their important jobs. It reminded me of what all the effort is for, and made the hard, long winter worth it.

And then, as if all that were not enough, I backed two winners at Stratford, so that my Cheltenham bank is bulging.

I’m trying to resist the urge to put it all on Hurricane Fly. I love that horse like a brother. He is not a soft, kind horse like my mare. He is tough as teak, a dauntless warrior, a fighter and a biter. I’ve seen him almost shoulder other horses out of the way, with a bugger off look out of the corner of his canny old eye, and a surge of power that says: Champion coming through. I love him for his raw talent, his splendid athleticism, his refusal to give up. He has a wildness in him, as if he can still hear his ancestral voices, an elemental aspect, that sets him apart.

I reminded myself today that Cheltenham is not about the punting or the winning or the cash or the cleverness of picking out that one banker of the meeting. It’s about these mighty thoroughbreds I love so much. It’s about their beauty and their grace, their courage and their willingness and their power, their dancing stride and their mighty leaps. I cannot count the ways in which they make my heart sing.

I’ll have a little bet on the Fly, for loyalty, for love, for the memory of old times, but if he can reverse all the stats and see off the young shavers as he storms up the hill, it will be a sight worth more than emeralds. Even typing his name makes me smile.

So, it turned out that this was a day of manifold happinesses. I do not take that for granted for a single solitary minute.

 

Just time for a couple of  pictures, as it’s late now, and I’m tired, and I’m going to have a glass of wine and watch a replay of Quevega picking herself up off her nose at the top of the hill and surging to festival glory last year. That little battling mare makes me cry.

View from HorseBack:

The dear HorseBack horses:

My astonishing mare, taken a few days ago. A lot of happiness in that picture:

This is very naughty, because I respect copyright, but I had to show you this ravishing picture of Hurricane Fly, safely arrived at Cheltenham, blowing away the cobwebs from his journey across the sea. I hope that the very talented Alan Crowhurst will forgive me, just this once:

Of work and time and great, great mares.

As I go up to HorseBack to do my morning stint, I get put up on a horse. If someone says to me ‘Would you want to ride?’ the only answer is yes. The horses need a last go over the obstacle course in the arena before the first participants arrive next week, and it also means that the HorseBack team who are studying for their UK Coaching Certificate can put in some teaching practice. I get to have fun and feel useful and learn more about the Western riding, which is starting to feel less strange to me now.

As I leave, I get a lovely invitation to lunch. Feeling like an idiot, I have to say no, because I am running back to my desk. The three current projects I am juggling must be juggled, and my time management has not yet caught up, even though I swear I am going to improve it every day. Lunch just now is a thing of moments; fuel from the fridge to get through the rest of the day. This is quite odd, for a greedy person like me, but a great relief for Red the Mare since it means I shall make a nice light weight on her back.

I was reading yesterday about someone going on the notorious 5-2 diet. I thought: I have a diet. It’s the No Diet Diet, which is good for me since I refuse to go on any weight-loss regime for political reasons. I think it would make the Pankhursts sad. The suffragettes did not chain themselves to railings so that I could hate my body. On the other hand, if you are riding a kind thoroughbred mare, it’s only polite not to be too heavy on her.

The No-Diet Diet consists of: taking on absurd amounts of work and being useless at managing your time, which means that you have no space to cook great lunches loaded with olive oil as was my old tradition. Now it’s a ham sandwich and a cup of green soup, which makes the banting effortless. I’m far too busy even to notice I am eating less than usual.

I would like though, when kind people say come and have lunch, to be able to smile and say yes, instead of shaking my head with a wild look of panic in my eyes. I am going to work on order and lists. I am going to make timetables and stick to them. I’ll get there in the end.

All focus today is to finish work in time to settle down and watch the mighty Hurricane Fly in the 5.30 at Punchestown. Yesterday, the great mare Quevega made me cry actual tears of joy and admiration with her dancing brilliance. I hope today my lovely Fly will do the same.

A snatch of poetry suddenly comes into my head. It is from George Whyte Melville, a horseman to his boots, who fought with the Turkish cavalry in the Crimea.

‘I have lived my life -I am nearly done –
I have played the game all round;
But I freely admit that the best of my fun
I owe it to horse and hound.
With a hopeful heart and a conscience clear,
I can laugh in your face, Black Care;
Though you're hovering near, there's not room for you here,
On the back of my good grey mare.’

Ah, I think, a hardened old fellow brought almost to sentimentality by the very thought of his darling girl. Mares do that I think, whether you see them on the racecourse, or mooch with them in the field. At Punchestown, Quevega looked so tiny and plain compared to the great shining strapping geldings she was up against. She has no flashy looks; like the equally brave and brilliant Dawn Run, she is a most ordinary bay mare. Nothing to look at, said the commentators. I don’t mean to be rude, one of them added. Yet it is true; she would never catch the eye in the paddock.

But oh, when she was let loose by Ruby Walsh in the glimmering Irish sun, she was a thing of singing beauty. Poetry in motion is a platitude now, rubbed thin with use, but it could have been minted for her.

As I stood with Red later, in the evening light, feeling her dear head resting on my shoulder, scratching her cheek and telling her the story of the race, I thought: there really is something about the ladies. The mares stop my heart like nothing else.

 

Today’s pictures:

Talking of ladies, here are some splendid ones. The sheep and lambs have come for their annual visit to the south meadow. It is a real sign of spring and makes me smile every time I see them:

Daffs:

Winnie, one of my favourite HorseBack UK mares, who is doing good work this week:

Grinning madly, getting better at the Western, on the supremely relaxed Apollo:

Mr Stanley, with a look which says: don’t mention squirrels unless you really mean it:

My lovely girl:

The hill:

Cheltenham update. Or, sheer joy. Or, the wonderful, glorious luck of the Irish.

 

Would love to tell you the whole story of the day, but I’ve never been so tired in my life. However, just have enough life in my fingers to type the love and delight I felt when my two best beloveds, Hurricane Fly and Quevega, stormed up the hill, defying all statistics.

On paper, in particular, the darling old Hurricane should not have won. No horse has regained the Champion Hurdle for forty years, and, aside from that dark stat, he is really considered too old, at nine, to do the business. But the lucky thing is that no one told that brave fella that everything was against him. He stuck his neck out and lengthened his stride and left brilliant horses in his wake. I backed him in cash, on the course, and I had him in a huge all for love double with the mighty mare, Quevega, and the brilliant Ruby Walsh guided them both home.

I am not ashamed to say that I burst into wild tears of joy. After Quevega, I actually HUGGED a completely strange young man in the Jockey Club stand.

The whole course erupted with joy both times. That’s the difference between being there and watching it on the television. As you stand, in the wonderful roiling cauldron that is Prestbury Park, you hear thousands of people calling RUBY RUBY RUBY, with one joyful voice. You also see the glorious wide smile of that wonderful jockey, and see the pricked ears and gentle preening of the beautiful, clever, good thoroughbreds that he rides.

I’m glad I won money, of course I am. But much more than that, I shall never forget the day I saw two mighty Irish champions smash records and make history. It really was a thing of utmost beauty. Even thinking of it now brings tears to my eyes.

And now, I’m going to have a restorative pint of Guinness and switch on the recording, so I can see on the screen those wonderful horses refuse to be denied.

Cheltenham. There really is nothing like it, in the whole wide world. Best five hundred and fifty miles I ever drove.

Cheltenham, Monkerhostin, Hurricane Fly and absurd excitement.

I am writing this at a million miles an hour at just after six. I’ve been awake for an hour, so excited about Cheltenham I cannot sleep.

I had slightly hoped I would wake early, and then I could go through all the form one more time, and invent the most cunning accumulator of all time, and make my old dad proud. Instead, I did some writing for HorseBack, because today is real red letter day and I had to mark it.

It’s possibly slightly more red letter-ish for me than for them, because it locks into my great passion as I charge off to the races. Today, I am going to meet Monkerhostin.

There is no time now to tell you how or why or all the delightful details. Monkerhostin was a really good racehorse, tough, genuine and talented. In his retirement, he is doing something even more remarkable than storming up the Cheltenham hill. He now lives with Sergeant Major George Beilby, and helps the Royal Marine through the struggles of post-Afghanistan life.

Anyway, the sergeant major is going to do some work with HorseBack, to highlight how horses can play such an extraordinary role in the path to recovery, and so, in my official capacity as Writer-in-Residence, I am going to meet him today and his glorious horse. I am beside myself. Monkerhostin is everything I love about the jumps. This is what his previous owner said about him: ‘He never gave up. Sometimes watching him down the back straight you thought he had no chance, but he never saw it like that. He wasn't always good enough but he always gave it everything he could.’

Those are the ones that stick in the memory, and make the heart lift.

So if you are at Cheltenham today, look out for Monkerhostin in the parade at 12.15pm. If the people at Channel 4 can get their act together, they might even show it on the television. And think of me, vibrating with excitement and trying vainly to act normally, when I get upsides these two remarkable people.

I can’t revise all the form now, so I’m just sticking with my beloveds. The Irish in me is strong this morning, and I’m staying true to my two darlings from over the sea, Quevega and Hurricane Fly. I’ve put them in a treble with My Tent or Yours as my charity bet for HorseBack. Channel 4 does charity bets, so I’m going to do one too. It does feel a bit cheesy, just choosing three favourites, and possibly unwise, since the favourite statistics at Cheltenham are not great. But they are the ones I love today and that’s all she wrote.

I really, really want Hurricane Fly to win, with every beat of my ridiculous heart, because I love him and because no one has regained the Champion Hurdle for forty years . But there is a reason for that, and I do think Zarkandar will run a huge race. Even when he was a baby, a raw four-year-old who knew nothing, he was amazingly tough. He’s a fighter, and he won’t go down without a tussle.

After all that, Rock on Ruby will probably beat both of them. I’d like to see Countrywide Flame run his race. He’s another of whom I am enduringly fond, although he’s probably not quite good enough to make the frame in this.

But really, today is all about a former champ, the lovely Monkerhostin, and his Royal Marine. The parade, at 12.15. Tell all your friends.

 
Only one picture today, of the special Cheltenham hat. I shall not be bringing the horse, you will be amazed to hear:



Oh, and to those of you going and those of you watching and those of you, like me, shouting yourselves hoarse, have a glorious day and a lot of good Guinness, and perhaps a winner or two.
 
PS. This is almost certainly atrociously written and riddled with howlers. Been up since five so brain already a bit addled. Forgive me.

In which, slightly against the odds, I have a very lovely Saturday indeed.

My poor mum is in the hospital. Even though the news is hopeful and she has fabulous doctors and the treatment in Aberdeen is second to none, I hate the thought of her on a ward.

I take my mind off it with horses. First of all my own, who have survived a night of wild gales, but still have so much wind up their tails that they give me a bronco show all round the paddock. Even the quite tubby, quite elderly mountain pony does pirouettes and leaps and spiffy cantering.

Autumn the Filly, true to her mighty Quarter Horse breeding (she is by some tremendous Western champion, who keeps winning things), does her great ventre à terre gallop from one corner of the field to the other.

Red the Mare, not to be outdone, puts on her full Spanish Riding School of Vienna performance. First of all there is the tail, vertically in the air, flying like a flag. Then there is the actual increase in size. I never quite know how horses do this; it’s like watching them assume superpowers. I swear when she draws herself up to full height, she grows about a hand. Then there are the amazing slow motion bucks, the rolling canter, the leaping turns. And finally, most glorious of all, the floating trot. It is as beautiful and stately as anything you might have seen in the Olympic dressage, but because it is a thoroughbred doing it, it’s higher and finer and lighter. It is an astounding combination of elegance and wildness. I laugh out loud, it is so lovely.

Then there is a fine afternoon of racing: the return of the brilliant Hurricane Fly, back to his pomp, a great old amateur record smashed by Mr Patrick Mullins on his father’s delightful mare, and the continuing winning streak of the bold Pete the Feat. He turns out to be wonderfully well-named, as he puts up a gallant front-running performance to record his fourth win in a row, with my money on his dear back.

All my favourite Twittering racegoers are out in force. It’s a whole new thing, watching the racing with a virtual gaggle. They are all incredibly funny and nice: quick to congratulate on a winning bet, generous with their praise of horses and jockeys, profoundly knowledgeable, fired with an enthusiasm which is leavened with a very British, very dry irony.

People tend to get grumpy about social networks, saying they are a poor substitute for real people. But, as I sit, 500 miles north of the racing action, I find my heart gladdened by the metaphorical hats which go flying in the air when a thrilling race is won. It may be virtual, but it is actual too. It is a proper community, and it illuminates my pleasure in the game.

I think: oh, I wish my mum had been able to see the glorious Fly back to his rampant best. She loves Ruby Walsh so; she speaks of him with a maternal fondness. (‘I hope he is eating enough,’ she will say, over the breakfast table. ‘It’s such a hard life for those jockeys.’) Still, let us hope those good Scottish docs fix her right up and send her back to us.

 

Another selection of my Christmas day photographs:

Here I am doing training with Stanley the Dog and the canine of The Older Niece. Who, incidentally, won the Waggiest Dog competition at some very serious London dog show. (The canine, that is; not the niece.)

 

I hope you are having a good weekend, too.