Memories of Kauto.

The sun is shining and I’m determined to mine the beauty and the joy out of this day. I spent time with my sweet mares, drove round the Scottish hills to look at the snow, went to see the dear Stepfather, and then ran home to watch the racing. Many of my old friends are out today, and my heart is beating with love.

Four years ago today, I watched Kauto Star line up for the Betfair Chase. I was with the Beloved Cousin and her small children and my dear old dog, known on this blog as The Pigeon. The consensus on the day was that Kauto’s glory days were behind him. Some people were even quite cross that Paul Nicholls was running him.

I wrote about that day, and I’m reproducing it here because my memories of the bold and beautiful Kauto Star will never die. I’m thinking a lot about the people who are not here any more; that glorious horse is not here any more. I hope they are all running their race on some celestial track, with the emerald turf springy under their feet.

The story of a great race:

(There was a rather long introduction about having chard from the garden for lunch, and about my love for Master Minded, who was also running. Only then did I get to the main action, which is why the start sounds slightly abrupt.)

Kauto Star is eleven, which is old in racing years. Not geriatric, but a sure veteran. The young pretender, Long Run, had come last season and taken the Gold Cup. Worst of all, he had usurped Kauto Star’s crown in the race he had made his own, the King George at Kempton. Bear in mind Kauto is the only horse in history who had won that race four years in a row, the last time by over 30 lengths, against some of the best chasers in the country.

He is the mightiest and most beloved champion since Desert Orchid: first horse ever to win a Gold Cup, lose a Gold Cup, and come back to regain it; the first horse ever to win fourteen group one races. There was a time when he seemed almost unbeatable. In his early days, he used to put in terrifying mistakes, quite often over the last fence when it seemed as if he had everything sewn up; in his later years, he could put in exhibition rounds, making such mighty leaps that it seemed as if he had wings.

The thought was, though, that his great days were all behind him. People were muttering about retirement. Today, he was facing three tough miles, up against much younger horses, at least four of whom had big wins under their belts. He might fall, be pulled up, get tailed off; the talk was that if he did not run well today, he would be retired on the spot, and that is the last we would all see of him.

I’ll give my hero another chance, I thought. I’ll just put on a little twenty, I thought, mostly out of love. I was not sure he could do it. Long Run is a very, very good horse. I was acting on sentiment. Then I got a bit more forensic. Paul Nicholls had trained Kauto to the minute for this race; Long Run would be being saved for later in the season, and often does not run well first time out. I’ve always thought there is a little question mark over his jumping; he can go a bit flat and careless when the pressure is on.

I examined the form. There were definite drawbacks over another of the two main dangers. Damn it, I thought; this really could be Kauto’s moment. Five minutes before the race, I put on another twenty. Sod them all, I thought: my boy is not done yet.

I explained some of all this to the children. They got very excited. They watched the quick replays of his earlier triumphs that Channel Four was showing, and decided they loved him.

‘Come on Kauto,’ they said.

Off the horses went. Kauto Star was jumping very well, but almost stupidly well, standing off outside the wings. I was worried he would take too much out of himself.

The lovely Ruby Walsh, his regular jockey, took him to the lead, and kept him there. He can’t stay in front for three miles, I thought, not at his age. But he kept pinging his fences and was bowling along as if he did not have a care in the world. Ruby was so relaxed half the time he seemed to be riding with just one hand. It was delightful to see the two old pros in such perfect tune with each other.

‘Maybe he can do it,’ I said.

‘Come on, Kauto,’ cried the children.

‘No,’ I said. ‘He can’t do it. It’s too much to ask.’

But Long Run was making mistakes, and running a little ragged. Kauto was collected and foot perfect. He’ll fade, I thought. The younger fellas will come and pick him up.

Into the last four fences. I was on my feet. ‘Come on my son,’ I shouted.

‘Come on, Kauto,’ yelled the children.

The Pigeon was also on her feet, barking her head off, which is what she always does when I shout at the racing.

Three out. Kauto Star still in the lead, against all the odds. At this stage, I actually jumped onto an armchair and was bawling my head off. ‘Come on, you beauty,’ I yelled.

The Pigeon was jumping up and down on all fours.

‘Come on, come on,’ shouted the children.

The younger horses were gathering themselves for their final effort. Ruby still had not asked Kauto the question. ‘Oh, just steady,’ I shouted. ‘Just stand up.’

The great Ruby Walsh kept the old horse balanced and straight and steady, using only hands and heels, preserving all his energy for the final push. Everyone else was scrubbing away. I suddenly thought the mighty champion could do it.

Over the last, everything else faded away. Kauto was tired, but he’s not only a once in a generation talent, he’s got enormous courage. He does not give up. He just went on galloping to the line, brave and true, seven lengths in front.

The crowd went nuts. Paul Nicholls jumped in the air for joy. Ruby Walsh fell on the horse’s neck, hugging him. I was shouting and crying. The children were yelling yes, yes. The Beloved Cousin looked at me in amazement. ‘He looks as if he could go round again,’ she said.

The King was back in his castle. He walked back to the winning enclosure, his ears pricked, his head held high. The crowd gave him three cheers, twice. No one could quite believe it. It was one of the best things I ever saw in racing.

So, it went from an ordinary day to an extraordinary win from a most remarkable horse. I wish my dad had been here to see it.

 

Today’s pictures:

My own little shining star:

Stanley the very Manly:

In memory of Kauto Star. With love and thanks.

Kauto Star is dead.

Those are four heavy words to write. I never even met the bold beauty, yet, as so many people in racing did, I loved him as if he were my own. There are mighty horses that come along once in a generation, that have a sprinkle of stardust about them, that gallop straight to the heart. Kauto Star was such a horse.

For years, I tried to work out what it was about him that was so thrilling, so visceral, so lovable. I think it was because he had it all. He had dash and power, a supreme natural talent, and, in the early days, a rather terrifying and exhilarating recklessness. He sometimes seemed to be having a little joke with the crowd, ploughing through the last fence, miraculously finding a fifth leg, before picking himself up and storming to the line. He had a lilting exuberance, a dancing stride, a joy in him, as if he really loved his job.

But he had dour courage as well. I’ve seen him win on the bridle, as he liked, leaving good horses floundering in his wake, and I’ve seen him put his head down and scrap through the mud and the rain, straining every sinew to get his nose in front, his will to win gleaming through the gloom and the murk. He could shine like the sun, and he could fight like a tiger.

His partnership with Ruby Walsh was one of the most beautiful things I’ve seen in racing. They had a harmony and communion and understanding which is rare and glorious. They knew each other and they liked each other. ‘Ah,’ said Ruby, that hardened professional, on live television, to an audience of millions, ‘I love him.’

He was the beating heart of Ditcheat, ridden every day by his devoted Clifford Baker, loved and cherished and honed by a remarkable team, who kept him sound and kept him fresh and kept him loving his job. To bring any horse back, season after season, with all the physical and mental demands on those fragile legs and those sensitive thoroughbred minds, is something. To keep them winning at the highest level is an achievement beyond compare. Paul Nicholls deserves every single superlative in the book.

Kauto Star was as handsome and filled with charisma as an old school film star, and like any great presence, he knew how to please a crowd. He did it in so many different ways, whether it was becoming the first horse to regain a Gold Cup, or dancing to his fourth King George victory by an imperious distance (which means so many lengths that the officials could not be bothered to count), or, in perhaps his most moving and stirring moment, coming back when everyone had written the old boy off to win his fourth Betfair Chase at Haydock. There really was not a dry eye in the house on that grey afternoon.

He had that extra indefinable something which the great ones have, what my mother calls the look of eagles. Arkle had it, and Frankel had it, and Desert Orchid had it. Horses are flight animals, easily alarmed by noise, but when Ruby Walsh would canter Kauto down in front of the stands after a majestic victory, with shouts and cheers ringing out into the winter air, the bonny champion would lift his head and turn his intelligent eye on the roaring thousands as if knowing that it was all for him. Pride is a human word, but I think he felt it.

Very few horses go beyond the racing world. But Kauto Star, with one of those mighty, streaming leaps, the ones when he took off outside the wings and landed as far out the other side, jumped from the back pages to the national headlines. For years, he was the perfect Christmas present, soaring round Kempton as if it were his spiritual home. His relentless, rhythmic gallop rattled into the minds and hearts of many people who hardly knew one end of a horse from another. But they knew brilliance and beauty when they saw it; they knew class and guts and glory. He was a supreme athlete, but he was also a great character, his bright, white face recognisable and beloved the length and breadth of these islands.

Like any storied character, he had his troubles, but he always came back. There seemed something indestructible about him. There were no doubters he could not defy, no fence he could not jump, no record he could not smash, no peak he could not scale.

It turns out, after all, that he was destructible. One freak field accident, and a superlative equine hero is brought to dust.

It was a privilege to have seen him. He gave me more joy than I can express. I loved him with that pure love I always feel in the presence of greatness. It is all sunshine in Scotland today, but it feels as if a light has gone out.

He has gone to run another race, somewhere we cannot follow him. I hope he has springy green turf under his feet and the wind in his mane and the echo of those adoring crowds in his dear old ears, as he passes his final winning post.

 

Today’s pictures:

Just one photograph today. I cannot show you a picture of Kauto, because I am strict about copyright. You can find wonderful shots of him all over the internet, many of them taken by the exceptional Edward Whitaker. Here is a picture of my blue hills instead. These hills are my cathedral. Whenever anyone I love dies, I commit them to the hills. The Scottish mountains were here for millions of years before I was thought of, and shall stand for millions of years after I have gone. I find a curious consolation in that, and a sense of peace and perspective.

PS. As I finished writing this, and was about to press publish, I had to go back to the internet, just to check. My magical mind was saying: it must be a mistake. The big fella cannot possibly be gone. But he is, and so I make my farewell. He will live on in my heart, and in those precious memories which no amount of time can erase.

Shine on, you crazy diamond.

There’s been an awful lot of fuss about Kauto Star in the last few days. You may imagine it is a discussion about which I have thoughts. On several occasions, I sat down to write those thoughts. I grew up in racing, I am in love with the thoroughbred, I’ve been entranced by Kauto Star since he was a wild novice. It had special subject written all over it.

But then the voices rose loud and clamorous and people began taking pot shots at each other and the debate grew personal and ugly. I had a radical idea. It was: sometimes a private opinion is just that, private.

There is nothing either beautiful or useful that I can add to the argument, so I’m going to go all William Morris on your ass. (But not on your ox, obviously.)

Instead of heaping more coals on a roaring fire, I’m going to reproduce a piece I wrote about Kauto in his pomp, in his glory days, when the dancing sight of him, imperiously casting aside all-comers as he romped around Kempton on Boxing Day, galloping himself into legend, stamping that green turf as if it were his very kingdom, made me cry tears of love.

This is how I want to remember him, and this is how he lives on in my heart, and in the hearts of all those who were lucky enough to witness his glory and his grace.

He gave us joy and we remember him well.

 

This is the King George, Boxing Day, 2011:

Half an hour before the start, there is the first glimpse of Kauto Star, walking calmly round in his red rug. He surveys the racecourse with his head held high, as if he owns the place. My mother calls: ‘The look of eagles,’ she says.

Ruby Walsh looks tense. ‘We’re here today with a fighting chance, but we are the underdog, there’s no point pretending that we’re not.’ He smiles, a little rueful, as if he suspects this might be the last spin of the wheel. 'He’s a privilege to ride,' he says.

Long Run is the evens favourite. He looks wonderfully well: fit as a butcher’s dog, his coat gleaming, his ears pricked. The interesting thing about the two horses is that they are completely different physical types. Long Run is long and lean, with a slightly thin neck. Kauto Star is big and bonny, a strong, compact, rounded horse. He carries his head high. He has a great, strolling action, where Long Run has a quick, athletic gallop, a bit on the knee.

Parading in front of the stands, to the applause of the crowd, Kauto nods his old head as if in acknowledgement. He looks as beautiful as any equine I ever saw; he is relaxed and serene. Down at the start, he still has his ears pricked, collected as a show pony. Long Run is chewing at his bit, his ears back, impatient to get on with it. He is young, after all, and at this moment, it shows.

And, off they jump.

Kauto pricks his ears, canters to the front, on the outside. The first fence is always a sign. Kauto Star sails over it. Quickly to the second, he puts in two long strides and stands off a mile, quite effortless. Round the first bend, he starts carrying his tail high, like a flag. Lobbing along on the outside, he takes the next two neatly and easily.

Then comes the open ditch. I have stood in an open ditch, and looked up to the stiff birch towering over my head. They are about six feet across and almost five feet high, fearsome obstacles, especially to take when galloping at thirty miles an hour.

Kauto Star sails over it.

All great champions have their signatures. With Desert Orchid, it was his outrageous standing off, sometimes outside the wings, and his habit of tearing along in front. With Frankel, this season, it is his dancing, raking stride.

With Kauto Star it is this sailing thing. When he meets a fence just right, and arcs high over it, it is as if, for a moment, he defies the laws of physics. There is a split second when it almost appears as if he has gone into slow motion, as if someone has pressed pause. His other brilliance is that he can jump very big and lose no ground in running. He jumps, as the racing people say, out of his stride, and at this moment, the stride is a perfect one.

On he goes, to the next plain fence. Another sail. He is almost in the lead now, and has fallen into a lively, bouncing gallop, something joyful in it. One should not get too anthropomorphic, but at this stage in the race, he looks happy. If horses could smile, he would be smiling.

Round the next bend and into the straight, Kauto puts in another immaculate jump. Ruby is sitting very still on him, with a tight rein. Long Run is three lengths back, doing nothing wrong.

As he approaches the stands for the first time, Kauto Star pricks up his old ears and puts in an exhibition leap, flicking his heels up into the air behind him, as if to say: here is your Christmas present. ‘What a jump,’ says Simon Holt, who is calling the race. Kauto raises his head, and goes to the lead.

At the fence which will be the last next time round, Ruby sees a stride from way out, the horse makes a streaming, flying leap, and the crowd starts to holler and roar. ‘They’re getting a tremendous cheer,’ cries the commentator. ‘Cheers and applause.’ Kauto flicks his left ear back towards the noise. As I have watched the race again and again, I have wondered: can they hear that, the horses, out on the track? Does the auld fella think, in his horsey old head: that’s for me?

Behind him, Long Run has no such sentimental thoughts. His head is down, his ears are back; he looks dogged and determined.

And off they go, out into the country again, with nine huge fences still to jump. Kauto is bouncing along, on the outside of dear old Nacarat, the front-running grey, still looking as if he is having more fun than anyone else.

At the next, he comes as close as he has so far to making a mistake. It’s not really an error, it’s just he gets in a bit tight. This is not a sail; this is just a working jump, no poetry about it. It does not stop him in running though, and he keeps right on with the wonderful rhythmic stride which Ruby has got him into.

At the next, another open ditch, it is as if Kauto thinks to himself: well, that last one wasn’t so pretty; now I shall show you how it is done. He takes off a stride too soon, and lands as far out on the other side. It is the kind of thing that makes you gasp, every time you watch it.

At the next bend, something interesting happens. Ruby has not moved an inch on Kauto Star; the reins are still tight. But old Kauto gathers himself and seems to put an extra spring in his step. I remember watching a film about Desert Orchid once, when Simon Sherwood, his jockey, said something like: ‘I said to him, come on, we’ve done enough poncing about, time for business, mate.’ It is as if, with seven to go, Kauto thinks to himself, without being told, it’s time for business. He pricks his ears, lengthens his stride, and dances past Nacarat.

It’s another perfect, high, sailing jump at the next, and now Kauto is out in the lead. Here is another new thing about the horse in his old age. In his younger days, he used to be covered up a bit; he’d go along in mid division, and Ruby would worry about getting to the front too soon. Sometimes he had to, because the horse was going so well, but it was never considered an ideal tactic.

Apart from the real, instinctive front-runners, like Desert Orchid, who always put his ears back in fury if anything headed him, most horses do not like being out on their own for long. I’ve never heard it actually said, but I assume it’s a ancient herd instinct thing; most of them need something to chase. This bold, prominent style is a new thing for Kauto, and it paid off magnificently in his last win at Haydock. It is also a joy to watch.

But it is a risk. It’s asking an awful lot of a chaser to be up at the sharp end for three long, hard miles. At this stage though, Kauto looks as if it is all he wants; just the clear blue sky and the straight green sward in front of him, and he gallops over it as if it is his spiritual home.

Six out, and a good, efficient jump, nothing showy about it. Ruby has a quick look under his arm, to see the white noseband of Long Run looming up behind him. But Kauto is full of running, and the young champion gets a slap down the neck, to remind him to go about his business. ‘Kauto Star is turning the screw,’ cries Simon Holt, his voice rising with the excitement of the thing.

Five out: a magnificent leap. Long Run is not quite so fluent behind, and Sam Waley-Cohen is having to ride him now. Kauto is now galloping a double handful, well within himself.

Four out: a good, unshowy jump. All business, mate. Kauto runs on, still beautifully balanced, his stride long and true. Long Run, in second now, looks a tiny bit out of kilter, scrabbling a little. Sam Waley-Cohen starts riding him hard, pushing away, the reins flapping.

By contrast, two lengths in front, Ruby still has a tight rein, his hands firm and still on Kauto’s neck. The camera comes in for a close-up, and you can see the hard quality of the gallop. Simon Holt’s voice has risen: ‘It’s familiar territory to the horse in front.’

On the final bend, Kauto eases away from the field. Long Run looks in trouble, three lengths behind. I suddenly think the auld fella is going to win by a mile. He is just not stopping; the farther they go, the farther he gallops. But there are still three fences to go; Long Run has won this race and a Gold Cup, and is no mug; and the eleven-year-old has been out in front for a long time. He could make a mistake, get tired, pack up.

Coming into the straight, Ruby lets out the reins for the first time. I notice what beautiful hands he has. In racing speak, this means not finely shaped fingers, but the kind of hands which are gentle on a horse’s mouth, which can feel the horse, which can send and receive signals down the reins. It’s a bit hard to explain, but it’s a lovely gift, and not something all jump jockeys have.

It’s the first time he has had to ask Kauto any kind of question. It’s a mild question, a little shake-up. The horse responds with a perfect, neat, collected jump. He is running straight, which is always a good sign at this stage of a race. When they get tired, horses can wander about a bit. Kauto still looks full of running.

At the second last, he pricks his ears. ‘Another perfect jump,’ shouts Simon Holt. Behind him, Long Run is a bit ragged, and Sam Waley-Cohen has to concentrate to pull the horse together as they land.

There’s one to go. Everything else is going backwards. Ruby is riding Kauto Star seriously now, with hands and heels. Behind him, three lengths back, Long Run will not go away. Will the years tell? Will Kauto bash the last, as he has sometimes done in the past? The crowd is going nuts. ‘He’s being ROARED on,’ shouts Simon Holt, roaring himself.

They are going flat out now. Anything less than pinpoint accuracy will lead to disaster. Kauto raises his head, collects himself, measures one, two, three strides, takes off at the sweet spot, and soars over the last, Ruby’s head almost on his neck as they take flight together, man and animal in perfect harmony.

In mid air, Kauto stretches out his hind legs, and almost gives the fence a little slap, as if in salute to the obstacle. He lands quite perfectly. Pausing the tape now, as I write this, I see the ideal racehorse, all his muscles stretched and defined, his front legs carving the air like scythes, his tail flying like a flag. Behind him, Long Run, who has made a bit of a bosh of the fence, has put down all wrong, his back legs in a tangle, and his jockey has had to lean right back in the saddle so as not to get unshipped.

But it’s not over yet. That mighty leap at the last should have been enough to seal it; Long Run’s mistake should have cooked his goose. High credit to the young pretender; his wins last year were not flukes. He is talented, and determined, and he has been brought to a peak of fitness. He picks himself up, and gets galloping again. Kauto is still going well, but Long Run is finishing like a freight train. This is an incredibly impressive thing to watch, after three long miles, and 19 fences.

It was at this point, watching the race for the first time, when I still did not know what would happen, that I was shouting and screaming and jumping up and down on the sofa. ‘Come on you beauty,’ I was yelling. ‘Hold on, hold on. Come on, my son.’

‘Kauto Star by two lengths,’ shouts Simon Holt. He is having to yell his head off to be heard over the howls of the crowd. ‘Long Run is getting to him.’

Where is the bloody finishing post? I think. The crowd is sending up a noise I’m not sure I ever heard before. Ruby has his head down; he does not use the whip. He just rides the old beauty out for all he is worth, in complete rhythm with the horse, keeping him straight and true. Long Run is closing all the time.

‘Kauto Star, can he be the king of kings?’ shouts Simon Holt.

And suddenly, I know he can be. He is not just brilliant, he is courageous and genuine. He does not give up. He keeps galloping, all the way to the line, and flashes past in front, with a dogged Long Run only a length and a half behind.

‘Kauto Star, a sporting sensation,’ shouts Simon Holt, his voice hoarse with emotion.

Ruby stands up in his stirrups, punches the air, his face split into a smile of delight, and slight disbelief. The horse, as if knowing what he has done, pricks up his ears, and falls into a relaxed, rolling canter, as the cheers of delight buffet about the grandstand.

The crowd is throwing hats, papers, racecards, into the air. The beaten jockeys crowd around Ruby Walsh, shaking his hand, slapping his back, leaning down to pat Kauto on the neck. They might have lost, but they know what this sport is all about; they know a legend when they see one, and they are gentlemanlike enough to want to salute him.

There is a great sporting tradition in National Hunt racing ; one of the first things Kauto’s trainer, Paul Nicholls, did after the race was to shake the hands of his vanquished rivals, and say, with complete sincerity: ‘Well done.’ He meant it. Long Run and Sam Waley-Cohen made it a magnificent race, and nothing should be taken from them in defeat.

I have had my doubts about how good Long Run really is, but seeing him battle to the line like that, just refusing to admit he was beat, made me tip my hat in respect.

It was not his fault. He came up against one of the best horses of the last fifty years, in his majestic pomp, a horse who was loving his work, who did not put a foot wrong, who was racing on a track he adores, in front of massed crowds cheering him home until their throats were sore.

The rest of the field was seventeen lengths behind, and they were not window dressing. They were good, tough horses. If Kauto had not been there, Long Run would have won that grade one chase by seventeen lengths, in a canter.

There are three things I think about that race, which is one of the best I ever saw. One is that Kauto Star mostly won it with his jumping. When Long Run comes under pressure, his jumping falls apart, just a bit. He does not make catastrophic errors, but he goes flat, bashes through the birch, has to get himself back together. It is to his credit that he can whack a fence and still keep on running.

But Kauto Star was foot perfect. If you are being strict, you can say he was a bit close to the first fence round the back, but that was it. Everything else was right on song. Some of the leaps were prodigious, the kind you don’t forget. It was an amazing privilege to watch the eleven-year-old veteran, literally jumping for joy.

The second is: as John Francome said, he can go over two, he can go over three; he can go on good, he can go on soft; he can go left, he can go right. As someone added, a couple of days later: he can go up, he can go down. Quite frankly, at this stage, you would believe it if someone told you he could fly. The remarkable thing about this horse is his versatility. The remarkable thing about his training team is that they have kept him galloping over all those distances, in all those conditions, for all those years. Just keeping a horse sound over six seasons is a feat of training; to keep him at the top of the game is extraordinary.

The third is: in a way, a length and a half doesn’t do justice to the thing. It was very exciting and thrilling and everything, but what I mean is that the triumph was easier than that margin suggests. Kauto won his last King George by a distance, which basically means so damn far the stewards can’t be fagged to count. Someone later calculated it was thirty-five lengths. I think his last Gold Cup was about fifteen lengths; he cantered away with it, anyway.

This one sounds less imperious, more hard-scrabble. When it’s a length and a half, people can say: oh well, if the winning post had come a few yards later, or if only Long Run had jumped the last, or if Kauto Star had hit it, it would be a different story. The jumping did probably win it, but there was something else too.

Long Run was never going to catch the horse in front. Kauto Star and Ruby Walsh are two canny campaigners; they did just what they needed to. It was a close finish, but it was a definitive one. I think Kauto Star had that race won on the final bend. I think, in the end, it was that joyous, relentless, rhythmic gallop that did it. It never faltered. It was the gallop of a horse with the heart of a lion.

 

So there you are, my darlings. It was absurdly long, but I chose not to edit it down. That horse deserves every damn word. He was a shining star, and I may not see his like again.

I’m going to be good and obey copyright rules and not naughtily pinch one of Edward Whitaker’s majestic photographs. Here is my own shining star instead. She never won anything, except the perpetual challenge cup of my own heart, which she is awarded every day.

Saturday; mostly pictures

I had a whole bushel of words for you today, but the hours rushed away from me and now it is eight o’clock and my brain has turned itself off. So today is mostly pictures.

The loveliest thing of the day was watching Kauto Star parade around Haydock, the place where he stamped his class and his guts and his great, beating heart on four glorious occasions. The old warrior looked better than ever, his head held high, the look of eagles in his eyes. The new stars, coming out to strut their stuff, looked a little mere and ordinary by comparison. The decision to retire the great horse whilst he is still fit and well was a good and honourable one, but there was a sliver of regret in me as I watched him, looking as if he could hack round the three miles in a canter and give the young fellows a run for their money.

There are some very exciting new young horses this season, and some lovely prospects just coming into their pomp, but nothing will thrill me quite like Kauto. He was, truly, a horse in a generation. As Ruby Walsh once said of him, live on British television, to happy, watching millions: ‘Ah, I love him, anyway.’

I shall miss him.

I miss my dogs today, quite a lot. ‘Why do dogs have to die?’ asked the four-year-old cousin, in a spirit of enquiry. I did not really have an awfully good ontological answer to that.

I miss my mare, who is very much alive, but five hundred miles north. I look at pictures, to quench the yearning. ‘Oh,’ says the four-year-old, a dying fall in her voice, ‘she is so beautiful.’ And so she is, and I am lucky to have her.

 

Today’s pictures are a random selection from the last few months. I was going through the files and plucked these out for you. There are some archive shots of the Duchess and the Pigeon too:

Saturday

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Well, the auld fella could not do it. The schooling fall had clearly taken its toll; after stretching at the water, Kauto Star started tying up. His action faltered, he fiddled his jumps, that great joie de vivre of which I have spoken before faded. Ruby Walsh very quickly pulled him up.

He cantered back past the packed stands, whilst the race went on without him.

The Beloved Cousin, who was there, called later that night, as I sat in my room with my disappointment.

'Oh,' she said. 'It was quite extraordinary. People were cheering and throwing their hats in the air. No one was watching the race. They just clapped and clapped for Kauto Star as he came home.'

I was incredibly glad that she told me that. You did not get a sense of it from the television. It made it, somehow, all right.

He did not retire lame; he was not wounded; he returned with his old ears pricked. He could be a bit of a showboat, on his day. I guess that he knew, as much as horses ever know, that the applause was for him.

This morning I went to see my horse. We rode for almost an hour, very steady. She is quite alarmed by some aspects of her new home: woods and mountains, a farmyard with every manner of thing a horse might shy at, from flapping dustbin bags to bright blue pipes. It's that curious mixture you get in the country – a view of the glen so sublime it cannot be described with paltry words, and then all the mess and muddle of a working farm with its outlying cottages.

Interestingly, Red will walk quite calmly past flapping washing on a line, but freak out at a shiny water trough. This was a test. She is not naughty, or mean. She was genuinely alarmed. Horses are prey animals; she probably was looking up at the wooded hills and expecting a mountain lion to leap on her quarters.

There was an interesting moment when she started reversing (in a very impressive straight line, and at speed) down a hill. The shiny water trough was too much for her. I sat tight, stopped her, stood for a moment, turned a small circle, and beaming mental signals of safety at her, got her to walk on. I was not sure if I could do it, but I did. Hands and heels, but mostly, reassurance.

'There are no mountain lions here,' I told her.

Past the terrifying object, I congratulated her with long strokes up the neck, so that she would feel she had done something very clever.

All these are things I had half-forgotten. The ancient instincts, learnt in childhood, come back.We are feeling our way together. It is oddly touching. If I can get her to trust me and rely on me completely than it will be one of the best things I ever did.

A smiling woman in a car made my day. She stopped to let us go past; her window was open, so I paused for some polite conversation. What a lovely day, we are new here, that kind of thing. She beamed up at me. 'What an absolutely beautiful horse,' she said.

That chased away the lingering shadows from yesterday, in one stroke.

In the afternoon, more of the family came up to regard the new addition. She was dozing in her field, in the fine Scottish sun. It was lovely to see her all dopey and relaxed, her eyes half closed. She will settle in soon enough. I think she is being bloody brave, miles away from her old friends in the paddock, and all the familiar landmarks she has known for the last six years.

We shall go along just fine.

I wish I had pictures to show you, but the charger is still absent. 

Here is a little Kauto loveliness for you. He did not have his day yesterday, but nothing can erase the soaring delight of his two unexpected triumphs earlier in the season. He gave us joy, and we loved him well.

Cantering back, ears still pricked:

Wonderful photograph by Tom Jenkins for the Guardian.

And Ruby, a man of courtesy and grace in defeat, tipping his hat to the crowd, as they salute the great champion:

Photograph by Reuters.

Cheltenham, day four. The glory of Big Buck's; the hopes for Kauto Star.

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Well, he did it.

HE DID IT.

I know I told you of the fears and strains and nerves yesterday, but I’m not sure I quite realised how wound up I had been until I found myself bursting into shouting tears of joy and relief as Big Buck's flashed past the post.

It was a completely disproportionate reaction to a horse race. Funnily enough, I remember having the exact same thing when Desert Orchid won his Gold Cup, and Kauto Star regained his. It is what my old Irish godmother used to call ‘tears coming out at right angles’.

It’s a bit primal, I suppose. It’s about watching something above the rest, something so pure and true. It’s the sight of greatness and grit, brilliance and cussedness, glory and guts. It’s the thing when something is so far above what is normal.

Humans are used to normal; to muddle and compromise and all the little chips and scratches of which daily life is made. We don’t get perfect, hardly ever, and that is just as it should be. I don’t think life was made to be perfect, and whenever I see someone who has one which looks like that on the outside, I get a bit suspicious.

But, every so often, it’s not bad to have a fleeting glimpse of perfection.

Yesterday, Big Buck’s did something perfect.

All the superlatives and clichés may come out to dance. It was poetry in motion. It was a far, far better thing.

After the race, I went up to see Red the Mare, who had arrived from the south. The World Traveller brought the great-nieces up as a welcoming committee, and they fed her apples, which she ate graciously, from their tiny, flat palms. ‘This is your new family,’ I told her. She looked very relaxed, and very happy.

This morning, I got up at half past seven and went up to ride her for the first time in her new glen. She looked about all over the shop; the other horses galloped round the hill to greet her. She was a little startled, in this alien environment, and I was babying her a bit to start with.

Then, with the firm encouragement of the very strict Riding Expert, I kicked on and decided to take charge. Horses do not need any kind of aggression or bullying, but they do crave firmness. It makes them feel safe to know they have a boss. I suddenly realised I was not thinking like a boss, so I switched my mind-set, Red sensed it at once, and by the end, we were walking about in the shadow of the blue hills as if we had been together for ever.

I had one finger on the buckle of the reins, and she stretched her neck out, and ambled on, calm and docile as an old dog. The Pigeon scampered alongside, still a bit confused about what she clearly regards as a vast red canine.

‘Let’s just pretend you are Kauto Star,’ I said to the mare. I looked down at her little, golden neck. (She is only just 15.1, which is small in horse terms, and quite delicate, with all her thoroughbred breeding.) ‘Actually,’ I said, ‘you are more like Kauto Stone, his slightly less talented brother.’

All the same, she is a champion to me.

And now, finally, the huge day comes. I have been so keyed up for this, for so long, that I thought I would be quite hysterical by now. Oddly, the great victory of Big Buck’s yesterday has calmed me. It was as if I had my fairy tale moment; I can’t expect any more. And there is something very soothing about being able to go up and see my own lady.

I’ve gone fatalistic, now. I don’t expect miracles. You can’t dismiss statistics, especially at Cheltenham. Big race stats tend to play out, pretty accurately. No twelve-year old has won the Gold Cup for forty years. There is a reason for that. The Gold Cup is three and a quarter miles of hard, undulating gallop, over big, unforgiving fences. Kempton, where Kauto won last time, is a sharp, flat track. It finds out horses in a different way, because it is so fast, but it does not quite ask the same, searching questions.

There are a lot of very, very good horses in this race. Long Run runs on like a steam train and stays all day. Burton Port is a smart, improving type. Dear old Midnight Chase, on whom I have a tiny each way bet of love, will jump and stay until every last cow is home, and adores this course. Weird Al is very talented. Diamond Harry can’t be discounted, if he is back to his best. I think Synchronised might need softer ground, but Jonjo O’Neill’s horses are running out of their skin.

I try to put emotion aside and think rationally, and forensically. Kauto Star has looked, this term, as if he is as good as he has ever been. When he is at his best, there is nothing to touch him. There are mutters about him not being so good around Cheltenham, that perhaps he won’t quite stay the extra two furlongs. This completely ignores the remarkable fact that he has run in five Gold Cups, won two, been second once, and third once. I don’t think you can say he does not stay, or act on this track.

The two worries are the old legs, and the schooling fall three weeks ago. Kauto was brought to his peak for the Betfair Chase in November; to maintain such a high level of fitness into March is a major training feat. Having said that, he looked in sparkling form on his last racecourse canter at Wincanton. Reports are that his latest school was foot perfect. Only time will tell whether there are any lingering effects from his tumble, which reportedly left him bruised and sore.

The thing that has won him his last two races, apart from his blazing talent and his relentless galloping and his mighty jumping, is his joy. This sounds absurdly sentimental, madly vague, fatally anthropomorphic. But I’m not sure I ever saw a horse loving his work so much as Kauto Star was loving his on Boxing Day, when he notched up his record-smashing fifth King George. If he brings that joy today, then the lightning could strike.

The head says, the form book says, the logical self says: the young legs of Long Run will prevail. The always unpredictable nature of Cheltenham makes one think that something quite else could roar out of the pack, and beat the both of them – Burton Port, or Synchronised. Hot favourites have been overturned this week; nothing is certain in racing.

My aching, yearning heart says, hopes, whispers, that if the auld fella has that extra dash of magic still in him, the miraculous something extra that has fired him to an extraordinary sixteen Grade One wins, from two miles to three and a quarter, then the dream might come true.

If it does, I shall shout and cry like I have never shouted and cried before.

But the rationalist in me thinks of his age. It is the toughest class race of the racing calendar. I’m not sure history can be made again.

All I want now, actually, is for him to stand up. I want him to get round safe, and come home happy to his box. I don’t want to see him disgraced. I’d hate for him to be pulled up.

But he owes us nothing, not one thing. No horse I know has tried so hard, and produced so much, season in, and season out. He does not just have a once-in-a-lifetime talent, he has toughness, and a great, big, bottomless heart. He might skip around on good ground, but I have seen him battle through rain and mud to win by a nose. He has been described as a prince, but there is something in him of the yeoman’s heart.

In a way, asking him to win today is too much. If he even makes the frame, it will be an outrageous achievement. The fairy tale might strike, and I have money that says it will, because my money must always be where my mouth is, but the likelihood is a little more prosaic. The odds are against. But the heart still beats a little faster at the very thought of what could happen.

No horse gets to be this good, for so long, without a remarkable team around him. It’s not just the brilliant trainer, Paul Nicholls, but the assistants, the head lad, the lass who looks after him. Clifford Baker, who rides him each morning, and Rose Loxton, who looks after him, have done amazing work, and deserve a sincere tip of the hat.

And then there is Ruby Walsh.

RUBY, RUBY, RUBEE roared the crowd yesterday, as Walsh paraded Big Buck’s past the stands after his World Hurdle triumph. His name is hymned for a reason. He might be the most complete jockey I’ve ever seen.

Over the years, he has developed an almost telepathic sympathy with Kauto Star. The old warrior gives more for Ruby than for anyone else. Watch them, going into a fence; Walsh sits quiet and still, seeing the perfect stride a mile out, getting the horse to take off almost by osmosis. There is no hassling, no kicking and booting; just perfect harmony, between man and horse.

After the remarkable 2009 Gold Cup, when Kauto regained his crown, Ruby, smiling all over his face, his eyes alight, made a lovely, simple, declarative sentence. He told a nation, on live television, of his bold horse: ‘Ah, I love him anyway.’

Ah, I love him anyway, too.

Big Buck's, his big old ears pricked, and Ruby Walsh, passing the post ahead of the gutsy mare, Voler La Vedette:

Photograph by Reuters.

Kauto with his trainer, Paul Nicholls:

Photograph by Getty.

And at full stretch:

Photograph uncredited.

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.

In which I start off with every intention of brevity, and end up rambling about all over the place

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Sleep is a sort of miracle. I slept all yesterday; ten more hours last night. I woke, literally dreaming of Cheltenham. I checked my bones and body for the viral aches and pains and decided that I did not feel quite such an old lady as yesterday.

I thought, acutely, of my father. That is something that is happening just now.

I attempted some admin. I organised the transport of the mare. She is going with the amazing Gillie family, who have been moving horses from Scotland to England and back again for over thirty-seven years. She will arrive next Thursday afternoon.

It is perfect timing. Friday will be a very stressful day. My heart shall be wrenched with the desire to see Kauto Star run his race in the Gold Cup.

My dream self says: there shall be one more fairy tale. My rational self says: it is too much to ask, for such an old campaigner. The hill, the extra two furlongs, the coming back from that schooling fall, the twelve years of age: all these mitigate against the glorious, dreamed ending. But if I am very sad, I shall be able to run down and see my red mare, and the heavy heart shall lift.

I went to say goodbye to her this afternoon. She nuzzled my hand and butted her head against my chest. She has had a clip, and looks new and smart. She is very, very dear, and I love her. It's one of the maddest decisions I ever took, and one of the very best.

Now, I must pack.

A few quick pictures:





Red, pre-clip, still a bit woolly:



And post-clip, smart as a whip:





(Don't be too alarmed. First clip is always a bit dramatic. It shall settle down soon.)

Oh, and the lovely Kauto Star did a gentle canter round Wincanton racecourse this afternoon. Whatever happens, he looks magnificent, and it was a treat to see him bowling along, full of beans, happy as a bug.
There was no sign of stiffness or soreness; he was pulling hard at Ruby Walsh's hands, as if impatient to get on with the job. It is impossible to tell what will happen next Friday, but this afternoon was a pleasure to watch, anyway.

Lovely picture, uncredited, from Paul Nicholl's Betfair column today:



As I type this, sighing a bit, thinking about getting on the road, The Four-Year-Old puts The Pigeon's lead on, and takes her for a little walk round the house.

'Come on, Pigeon,' she says. 'You are a very good little dog.'

The Pigeon trots along beside the small figure. The funny thing is that the Nine-Year-Old used to do exactly this very thing with both my dogs, when she was four. There is a singing flash of deja vu. The Pigeon gives me the same slightly baffled, resigned look as she used to, before she was dragged round the kitchen table one more time.

The Four-Year-Old stops abruptly, hurls herself into a chair, and the Pigeon sits politely upright beside her. The Four-Year-Old proceeds to read the dog a back number of Country Life.

'That is a house,' she tells the Pigeon. (I bet it is, I think, imagining some vast mansion that only the new Russians can afford.)

It's a sort of crazy Nancy Mitford moment that makes me laugh. I shall think of it tomorrow, as I drive up the M6.

I'm always sad to leave this house. But I am always happy to get home to my hills. And this time, very soon, the hills shall have a red mare in them.

PS. I know I should not go on about comical children stories, but when one does not live with children, the interesting things they do and say are very, very interesting and funny indeed. The Four-Year-Old has just told me that she is 'going to my office'. She sits down with her notebook and starts to write.

'Where is the Pigeon?' I say.

'She's with me,' says The Four-Year-Old. 'She's an office dog.'

So that's the Pidge, for the evening. She is an office dog.

Never fear, no more cute small people stories for a while, as I flee north. Although of course next week can only be worse, since it is Cheltenham, and there will be just one damn equine story after another. And endless antic tales of bets lost and won, yankees and accumulators and patents and doubles and trebles. I am not my father's daughter for nothing. I blame that wild, gambling blood.

Pigeon, on the right, doing her last pose with her dear Southern Friend:



I love the expression on that dog's face. She is only three years old, but she has the lore of the ages in those half-closed eyes.

Her sister, so very like the late Duchess:



One final Kauto picture, from this afternoon at Wincanton, by Alan Crowhurst for Getty Images:



Very tired writing this now; too tired to edit. Forgive howlers and typos and general ramblings.