New hair, and thoughts on the Arkle. Or why I love the lovely Overturn.

Really don’t know what I am doing with this blog now. All the cards are up in the air with the onset of Cheltenham.

First of all, I decided to take some pictures of my new hair, so you could see it. The Dear Readers always have to see the new hair; it’s tradition. As I was doing so, I felt my usual emotion of mild absurdity. I decided to imagine Overturn beating Simonsig in the Arkle. This is the expression that resulted:

(Slightly crazed, I do admit.)

And now to much more serious matters, of Prestbury Park, and the beautiful creatures we shall see there over the next few days.

My plan is to write about a few of the races over the next week that really interest me. There’s going to be a lot of racing and horseflesh on the blog from now on, so for those of you who have no interest, just pretend I really am on holiday and not posting at all.

For the rest, here are my thoughts on the Arkle, and the two great horses whom I think will dominate the great race, named after Himself, the finest National Hunt horse of the last hundred years.

Simonsig is a very thrilling chasing prospect. He has never been off the bridle this season, and has strolled to two imperious victories, gloriously unbothered by having to wade through heavy mud. He won the Neptune last year, so he has the crucial festival form; that hill holds no fears for him. According to people who know, he is scorching the turf off the gallops at home, leaving observers gaping in his wake.

On paper, nothing can touch him.

But Cheltenham is not paper. That is why there are always smoking favourites which get bowled over. I remember last year when everyone said that Boston Bob was the absolute Irish banker of the whole meeting. Suitcases of cash from over the sea were riding on his talented back. But there was a lovely young horse from Scotland called Brindisi Breeze, whom I backed at 9-1, partly because of the Scottishness, partly because I liked him, partly because I admire Lucinda Russell and she does not send horses four hundred miles for nothing, and partly because I’ve never quite believed in the Cheltenham banker.

Even this year, I would say there is only one, which is the untouchable Sprinter Sacre. Simonsig, Pont Alexandre, Quevega, and Dynaste will all be described as bankers, but I can see Overturn, The New One, Une Artiste and Captain Conan coming along and shaking up all those certainties.

This is the thrilling, edge-of-your seat thing about racing. It is the glory of the thoroughbred, in all its enduring mystery. There are so many tiny imponderables which can make a difference, from the serious business of the tactics of a race, to something as trivial as the first thing a horse sees when it gets off the lorry at the course. If something spooks a highly-bred racehorse, and it gets itself too revved up in the preliminaries, the race can be frittered away right there. (The lovely Australian mare Ortensia did this at Ascot last year.)

And so, there is the great flying grey Simonsig, for whom the sky is the limit. And there is the brilliant journeyman, Overturn, who can turn his hoof to anything. He’s been around for longer; he’s run at the very highest levels over hurdles and on the flat. He was second in last year’s Champion Hurdle, which is not too shabby, and he has now taken, rather late in life, to fences, as if they were the things he had been waiting for.

He bowls along in front, often with his ears pricked, jumping for fun. He does perhaps not quite have the white heat of Simonsig, but he has a lovely, honest exuberance which makes it look as if he is dancing over the big obstacles. He is tough and genuine, and he is going to be the first horse Simonsig has encountered over fences who will not let the grey have it all his own way.

I think, in my most stern, scientific self, that Simonsig probably has the edge. My head says he probably is a banker.

But I love Overturn with every beat of my stupid old racing heart. I think he is my favourite horse in training. He’s so bright and bonny and he loves what he does and he does not know how to run a bad race. So he is my pick. It is not a forensic decision. It’s all for love.

It’s a small bet only. And, win or lose, he still is an absolute champion in my heart.

I am keeping strictly to my new policy of not abusing copywright and putting up naughty pictures of my favourites here. Those racing photographers have a tough living to make, and I must not pinch their hard work. If you want to see the two gorgeous fellas, Simonsig is here:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/sport/2012/dec/27/nicky-henderson-simonsig-second-week

And my best beloved Overturn is here:

http://uk.eurosport.yahoo.com/13032012/8/photo/overturn-ridden-jockey-jason-maguire-coming-second-stan-james-ch.html

A bit of a scratchy Sunday.

My post-angst fall-out works itself out in irritability and pointless crossness. I’m always banging on about the animal love, and putting the human nonsense to one side when dealing with them. Today, at least two of my menagerie got me all scratchy. I completely forgot my homilies about how they do not do things to one; they are just being their animal selves. The worst thing a human can do is take it personally. For about fifteen minutes this morning, I took it personally.

It took me a bit to work out what I was doing. For goodness’ sake, I told myself, sternly: it’s not all about you. I had to take enormous breaths, realise that it was not the creatures, but I who was in a shitty mood, and go right back to the beginning.

In the end, we worked it all out. We ended on the good note. This is practically the most important thing one can remember, with the non-humans. Probably with the humans too.

Red, who had been standing quiet and still as the Rock of Gibraltar through all the shenanigans, looked at me as if to say: you see, you eejit, it was always going to be fine in the end.

I don’t know what’s got into her at the moment, but she’s taken on some uber-Zen wise woman thing. The weird thing is that people always say your horse is a mirror of you. I am certainly nowhere near the state of Zen that my lovely girl is currently achieving. Perhaps she is in the business of showing me what my best self could be like, if only I concentrated hard enough.

I’m a bit overwhelmed at the moment. I’ve taken on three new projects; I’m still battling to come back from a severe professional setback. Several things are up in the air. There is uncertainty and struggle. I suppose that is just what life is, and I need to butch up a bit and get my good, stoical, determined foot forward. I’m usually pretty good at bashing on, but sometimes I feel a little out of my depth.

None of this is disastrous. It’s all very small stuff, in the wide picture. It’s the kind of thing that can be dealt with with a bit more sleep and some iron tonic and a proper dose of perspective. Most of the time, I feel possible and optimistic. I have plans and dreams and daily happinesses. But there are sudden moments when the difficult things back up on me, and I can see the fall, and that’s when I tumble into scratchiness.

So I take a deep breath, and write it down, and share with the group (oh you Dear Readers, what you have to put up with), and square my shoulders and bugger on.

The lovely Overturn, one of my most beloved horses in training, is about to go out and strut his stuff at Musselburgh, and that shall be six minutes of pure, undilute pleasure. He’s one of the happiest horses I’ve ever seen on a racecourse. He’s really good at what he does, and he just loves doing it. He’s only a novice, and, with luck, he’ll be giving me joy for a few seasons to come.

In other words, back to the small things. As long as a bonny horse in a northern race can still lift my heart, then I know nothing is so very bad.
 
Today’s pictures:











The herd:



Myfanwy the Pony. This is actually from a few days ago. She is too muddy now for her close-up. It seems even with the equines I cannot quite banish vanity. So here she is, when she was clean:



The glorious oceanic calm that is currently Red the Mare:



Stanley the Dog:



Love this de haut en bas stare:



Hill:

Moving Day

It is moving day. The small herd is going down to the new winter quarters. I get up at six, and meet the Horse Talker and her entire family, who have come to help, in the pale blue of dawn. A new moon is hovering in the sky like a silver promise and one last star glimmers beside it. I feel suddenly powerfully nostalgic for Red’s View, which we shall not see again until the spring. The beautiful mountain has watched over us so well.

There are a few loading glitches. In the end, Myfanwy the Pony has to show the posh girls how to do it. Red decides that a trailer is a very alarming place. She is used to travelling in a big lorry, with a wide ramp; this small space is not at all what she ordered. For a moment, I think all is lost. But patience, patience, one tiny step at a time - with a lot of reassurance and love, and the Pony Whisperer hopefully shaking the green bucket with the nuts in it – and suddenly, my duchess decides that she will graciously consent, and into the trailer she steps. She looks around for her small friend, who clops up into the next door stall, and off we go.

Down at the new field, Red walks down the ramp, her head high, every atom in her body gathered for novelty. She is on full predator alert. As I let her go, I expect her to explode round the field, but instead she makes off in her collected, floating trot. It is the small pony who decides it is her job to take the lead in beating the bounds, and she breaks into her roly-poly canter, with my mare following dutifully in her wake, as they inspect their new home.

‘Perhaps Myfanwy is the leader now,’ says the Pony Whisperer, thoughtfully. We ponder herd dynamics for a moment, and then go back to get Autumn the Filly, who had been most disconcerted to see us go without her.

When we bring her down, and open the trailer, Red rushes to the gate and lets out a high, plaintive neigh, as if shouting Where have you been? I find this very touching. She has bossed and dominated the filly since the moment she arrived; I had not really taken in that they had, in fact, become friends.

Once they are all together, we again expect fireworks, a bit of bronco action, some violent reaction to the move. Instead, they touch noses and fall to grazing, as if they have lived there all their lives. The Horse Talker laughs. ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Where is the drama?’

I do errands. I go to the shops for my mother, I visit the chemist and the newsagent, I even take my library books back. I take this as a very Good Sign. A defining mark of keeping my life on track is whether I get the library books back on time.

I go back to the field, to check the horses. Red lifts her head and lets out the same wild, calling neigh that she did for the filly. She has never done that before. She whickers sometimes when she sees me, but she never shouts. I go in and stand with her and let her rest her head on my shoulder and gentle her soft neck. I feel all the love.

The new quarters are lovely, quite different from the flinging beauty of Red’s View. They are in a natural bowl, surrounded by thick forest and a hill to the north, and a high stone wall to the south. Everything is very quiet, and very still. There is no wind coming off the mountain, and no people coming and going. It feels like a hidden magical place, and we are lucky to have it. The most lovely thing is that it is three minutes’ walk from my front door. I no longer have to get in the car, doing the routine of morning and evening stables; I can go and see them whenever I want. This feels like extravagant luxury, and very good for the poor bashed heart. The horse love will see me through.

I go and look at what is in prospect for the day’s racing. The jumps are getting back into their stride, and I see lots of old friends, coming back after their summer off. There is my darling Overturn, whom I love as if he were mine, and the exciting talent of Balder Succes, and dear old Tamarinbleu, having his last season at the age of twelve. He was glorious on his day, and I put a sentimental couple of quid on him each way at 25-1, for love, for old times’ sake.

It is ten past one, and I have cried twice today for my dog. But the amazing thing is that as I write this, as I think of the new quarters, the mare just down the road, the lovely leaping horses that I shall welcome back this afternoon as I watch the races on the television, I feel actual pleasure and excitement. That’s the moment when I know it shall be all right.

The thing I fear is when grief paints everything; when each day is pulled down by the tugging memories and the ache of loss. It’s why I have been banging on about searching for the One Good Thing. I can do the pain if there is some pleasure too. Until now, that has been artificial; I have been searching for it, trying to cut it from whole cloth.

Today, it came organically. It was real. I’ll cry again before the day is through, but I shall also smile. I shall shout for lovely Overturn on his chasing debut. He’s been such a hero over the hurdles and on the flat; the thrill of watching him go over fences shall be intense. I shall miss the barking Pigeon, leaping up and down as she always does for the races. But I shall feel the joy of the glorious sight too. As long as the two can exist together, then I am all right.

 

Too many pictures to sort through, as I have to concentrate on the racing now, so here are just two for the moment:

New quarters:

Pigeon, from the archive: