A different day.

The unsaddling enclosure at Cheltenham is one of the loneliest places in the world. It is here that the broken shards of hopes and dreams quietly swept away.
In that little square of green grass, as the cheers for Dodging Bullets and Sam Twiston-Davies rumbled from the winner's enclosure, a big black horse walked round whilst a small, huddled group of humans gazed at him in puzzlement and worry. The vet was there, smart in his tweed suit, but there did not seem to be anything wrong with the horse. He looked quite calm, not bothered by anything, just a little muted perhaps.

Sprinter Sacre was once a dancing, dazzling, gleaming champion, who could set sixty thousand people on a roar without moving out of second gear. And now, here he was, pulled up in the race he used to win by seventeen lengths.

In the pre-parade ring, he had looked magnificent. He was the same gleaming physical specimen that has delighted so many people for so long. Oddly, it was Dodging Bullets who would not knock your eye out, a little tucked up, a tiny bit starey in his coat. People said he was not a spring horse, and I thought he looked a little out of sorts. So much I know: he flew up the hill, whilst Sprinter laboured behind, and Barry Geraghty, who would never let anything happen to that horse, called it a day.

I had braced myself for the fact that the great champion had gone, but it's a melancholy thing to see. Of course a secret part of me hoped he would lift his head, hear the roar, and romp back to his rightful place. Yesterday was the day of fairy tales; today, under a surly sky, with Cleeve Hill doleful in the gloom, was the day of reality.

I hope they retire Sprinter.  I hope they find him something useful to do, because he's an active intelligent horse who needs a job; something not too taxing for the old ticker; something that will make him prick his ears and feel pride in himself. He always had a swagger about him, a hint of peacock preen. He'd need a little acclamation and applause from time to time.

Sire de Grugy also had to cede his crown, but I think he will be back. The ground was a bit quick and his preparation has been unorthodox and he's still got the fire in his belly.

Perhaps the most bittersweet of all was watching dear old Sizing Europe. He really was the pick of the paddock, looking more like seven than fourteen, gazing up at the gathered crowd with bright interest, lighting up the gloomy day. He bowled along for a while, reminding me of glory days past, and then it all got a bit fast for his old legs and he faded. But in that unsaddling enclosure, in contrast to the sadly shaking heads of the Sprinter connections, Sizing Europe's lad was wreathed in smiles, and Henry De Bromhead was giving him affectionate congratulatory pats. 'Ah,' said the lad, 'he's had a grand day out.'

One lady had come especially to see him, and was taking pictures, ruthlessly igoring the Nicholls victory party going on only fifty yards away. She obviously loved Sizing Europe and that was who she had come to see. She was allowed to pat the glorious old fella on the neck and her smile was that of a child who has been granted an unprecedented treat. The travelling head lass smiled too, as Sizing Europe skittered about, his ears pricked towards the applause that once was his: 'I'm afraid he's not very good at standing still,' she said. He was once very, very good at running fast, and he's still full of the joys and entirely undismayed by defeat, so perhaps they'll find him a race or two yet.

In contrast to Ruby Tuesday, when I could not back a loser, it was a day of defeats. My lovely Kings Palace looked his usual ravishing self, and went off with dash and purpose and I thought he would delight as he has all season, but he folded tamely, in the mysterious way that thoroughbreds sometimes do. It was a day of different pleasures to the first day. Just seeing dear Kings Palace had to be enough; the soaring victory I had hoped for was not to be. I really, really wanted the Champ to have a winner, so I could roar him up the hill, and the crowd could go crazy nuts in the head, and the valedictory cries of AP could ring round the Cotwsold hills. But he rode no winners, and seeing that familiar determined figure in real life for the last time, trying to imprint him on my memory so I could bore the great-nieces and nephews, making mental snapshots that I could bring out on a rainy day, also had to be enough.

Despite the fact that I bang on about ignoring the humans and going to see the horses, I did run into two of my favourite humans in the world. Both were huge racing fans in their teens and early twenties. I used to go with one of them to Sandown and Kempton and Newbury; we watched Desert Orchid together on his high days and holidays, when people would throw hats, newspapers, scarves, anything, in the air, and commentators went made with superlatives. The other I would see at every race meeting I attended, his eyes lit with dreams of glory.
Both of them took their passion and decided to make it their job. Doing what you love is great advice but very hard, but they both did it. They both say, with slight amazement, that they are living the dream. One is a trainer, and one a bloodstock agent. One had just come back from Meydan, where his most beloved old handicapper had just won a huge race, and one secretly believes that he might, just might, have bought the winner of this year's Derby. And only ten minutes ago we were all twenty together, wondering whether Desert Orchid could ever shake off his Cheltenham bad luck and finally win the Gold Cup.

They bought me pints of Guinness and the years rolled away and I called them my boys because even though we are all nearly fifty, they will always be boys to me.
The other amazing human thing was that, in a crowd of thousands, I bumped into the equine photographer I most admire after the untouchable Edward Whitaker. Michael Harris is not even a professional; he takes time off from his day job to take photographs of horses for love. Some of them are so beautiful they make me catch my breath. I've followed him on Facebook for a while and suddenly there he was, buying a cup of coffee from the same stall as I.

I've tried to take some pictures this week and I can tell you that catching good shots on a racecourse is one of the hardest things I've ever attempted. It's one thing, getting the red mare looking enchanting in her quiet field; it's quite another in a moving, teeming, crowded place, with the light seeming always to come from the wrong direction and everybody always moving about in a most disobliging way.

I take my hat off to Michael, who has taken his passion for horses and his passion for photography and made them into something very wonderful.

It was not Ruby Tuesday. It was more contemplative and less giddy. There was grit in the oyster. But without the grit, there is no pearl.

And when I got home, after thinking all this, and getting it all sorted out in my mind, I found that the one thing I had been saying all day had in fact happened. David Pipe won the bumper. And I had been on first thing at 8-1.

I laughed and laughed and laughed.

 

Today’s pictures:

A few snaps for you. If you want to see good ones, go to Michael Harris Photography on Facebook:

When I look at that picture, I think of one of the saddest parts in Out of Africa, when Meryl Streep says something like:

He gave us joy; we loved him well. He was not ours. He was not mine.

A brief lament.

A very sweet day with the family, and great joy as the Older Niece arrives from the south. A very sad day in the wider world, as the mighty Sprinter Sacre is pulled up at Kempton with an irregular heartbeat.

There have not been great shining stars this season. There have been lots of good horses, and lots of touching stories, especially those with family connections, with sons riding for fathers and brothers for brothers. The Moores, the Tizzards, the Scudamores and the Skeltons have all touched the heart. But there has not been a titanic champion, driving all before. There has not been one which sends shivers down the spine, every time, as Master Minded did in his pomp, or Kauto Star or Denman did. The last of the great champions, Hurricane Fly, for whom I hold a burning flame in my heart, was even a little bit ordinary on his reappearance, although he still managed to smash a record for the most grade ones ever recorded. There have been tough horses, and willing horses, and surprising horses, but not one who is head and shoulders above everything else. Those do, after all, not come along very often.

Sprinter Sacre is such a horse. His recent form simply reads 111111. Last season, he won for fun, playing with the opposition in top class races. All those who love racing held their breath to see this emperor back to survey his kingdom. To watch him stop half way, and trot back shaking his regal head, almost in bafflement, was a sadness indeed.

Horses come back from heart problems. He will get the best care in the world. But the fear is that the curtain has come down, and it will be an awful long time before we see his like again.

 

Today’s pictures:

From a lovely Boxing day walk:

And what used to be Red’s view, this morning, looking rather dramatic and ominous:

The silver birches, because we have not had those for a long time:

Not really a blog.

Too much actual life to blog. Woke afflicted with an absurd melancholy which is too stupid to explicate. The solution to this is: people and work. And in my case, horses as well. Did my work work; did my daily HorseBack work; saw enchanting people; took the first spring ride on my beautiful mare, under the watchful eye of her remarkable new trainer. The wind was up and the sun was sparkling, and you might have thought a highly-bred thoroughbred might have twinkles in her toes or the wind up her tail. But she was as easy and docile and gentle as a dear old cob. She had her bridle on, with a halter over the top, and I did not use the reins but just guided her with the rope, and the feeling she gave me was so sublime that I threw my actual arms in the actual air.

And now the idiot sadness is vanquished, I am going to add a final shaft of sunshine to my day by watching the imperious Sprinter Sacre have his final romp of the season at Punchestown. Red the Mare and the big black aeroplane: that turns out to be all the therapy I need.

 

Sprinter may be one of the mightiest champions we have ever seen over a fence, but this girl is the champion of my heart, even when not out of a stately walk (as befits her duchessy status). Here she is, looking very pleased with herself after getting her five gold stars:

The absolute absolute glory of Sprinter Sacre.

Would really love to write a whole blog about this glorious day, but I am so wiped out, from emotion, and from cantering about Prestbury Park like a wild pony, that I have no strength left in my typing fingers and no coherence left in my addled brain.

It was lovely.

My friend Emma who runs HorseBack laughs every time I use that word, and we have a pact that each moment I chance it in serious HorseBack UK literature it must be stricken from the record. But today, it is the very mot juste.

I did win some more money, which is always handy, and would make my dad laugh, from his spot in the grandstand in the sky. I had Sprinter Sacre in a variety of doubles and trebles with Quevega and Hurricane Fly, so both the Irish and the English did me proud.

But, as always, it was not that which made me cry and brought me joy. It was, as I said to someone earlier today, the beauty.

Sprinter is a very beautiful horse, huge and gleaming and bonny and astonishingly well put together. He is getting the look of eagles, which my mother always says the great ones have. But even that is not quite it. It’s not just that he is magnificent to observe, walking quietly round the pre-parade ring, or cantering down to the start.

It’s the beauty of what he does on the course. It’s the wild, glorious, effortlessness of how he leaps over those fierce obstacles, as if they were nothing. It’s how he cruises past really good horses, making them panic and struggle and look second-rate.

I can’t remember who first said he was like a big black aeroplane. Barry Geraghty, perhaps, who has the keen privilege of riding him. But whoever it was, they were right. He does not run; he soars. He flies like a bird in the sky.

And that is why I clapped and cried and yelped, and turned round to complete strangers and said, Oh, oh, was that not beautiful?

And the complete strangers smiled and nodded, and said: Yes. Yes, it was.

A thrilling afternoon

A bright day with a frigid wind howling in from the north-west. Red the Mare gathers her little band together under the big tree which they love the most, and makes sure that they are all facing in the right direction. Autumn moves the wrong way and gets a proper telling off. Myfanwy stands right by Red’s flank, as if saying: look at me, did my homework, top of the class.

I get very excited about the racing. The mighty Sprinter Sacre comes out and does his thing. He wins in a gentle canter, as if he is out for a little bit of schooling, leaving perfectly good horses toiling in his imperious wake.

In a thrilling finish, Nigel Twiston-Davies almost gets the old warrior, Imperial Commander, back from two years off the course to win the Argento Chase. The bonny horse goes down by half a length, fighting to the line. I shout my head off, even though my cash was on the winner.

I win some money; I lose some money. Ironically, my saving bet comes in the race which I decided I could not unravel at all. My sure things weren’t quite so sure.

I think of my dad and laugh, ironically.

Channel Four Racing gets a little better, but still won’t show me the horses in the paddock, or going down to the start. At one point, I get so frustrated that I tweet it is as if they are doing espionage. Moscow bloody Rules. I rarely get cross and rude, but I think whoever is in charge is an idiot, whose sole purpose in life is to make me sad. I’m taking it very personally.

Just as I started to write this, the last televised race came on. My betting has not been terribly successful today; my certain trebles crashed and burned. I had everything riding on The New One, and he lost by a neck. My last flickering hope was a tiny long-priced double on Cape Tribulation, who had won the Argento, and Reve De Sivola, who was up against the talented Oscar Whisky. It could resurrect my gambling fortunes. But I could not believe it would come true.

Dear Reve de Sivola travelled beautifully through the mud, stayed composed and balanced over the undulations of Cheltenham, pinged the last, and hit the front. But the ferocious Barry Geraghty and Oscar Whisky were coming at him, coming at him, relentless. I leapt on the sofa and started yelling. Stanley the Dog started jumping and barking, in the manner of The Pigeon. It was on the nod. For a moment, Oscar Whisky drew ahead. But the doughty Reve dug deep, stuck his bold neck out, and said No, you don’t. He motored past the post, the winner by a nose.

Mr William Hill, who had been counting his money, ran and hid behind the sofa.

It was a really great afternoon. It had everything. The soaring class of Sprinter Sacre, the fighting spirit of Reve de Sivola and Cape Tribulation, the almost fairy tale of brave Imperial Commander. It was overcast by a fleeting shadow, when a very nice horse of Lucinda Russell’s, Bold Sir Brian, had a crashing fall and lay winded for a while. Everyone feared the worst. When he got to his feet, shook himself, and walked away, he got the biggest cheer of the day.

I love them all, these mighty horses. I love their guts and their beauty and their talent and their unquenchable will to win. It’s my perfect afternoon, to be in their presence.

 

Today’s pictures:

The herd:

Love that last face. It’s her ornery face.

Stan the Man:

Still enjoying the snow vastly.

Almost translucent hill:

 

If you want to see the astounding creature that is Sprinter Sacre, there is a link to the Racing Post here:

http://www.racingpost.com/news/horse-racing/sublime-sprinter-sacre-cruises-to-victor-chandler-chase-win/1193283/#newsArchiveTabs=last7DaysNews

In praise of the small things; or, I stare very hard at the lichen

The weather, which was rumoured to improve, has set its face sullenly to dour. There was driving sleet this morning when I went to do the horses. Red attempted to lift my spirits by doing the most touching Disney string-section whinny when I arrived, and actually that did make me smile into the weather. Apart from that, it was a matter of mud and wet and dodgy terrain; everything in these conditions is an effort. The snow has melted, gone to slush, frozen again, and is now a filthy mixture of ice and mess. It is no longer pristine and picturesque, but dirty and dispiriting.

There was a sweet breakfast with the family to say goodbye to The Older Brother and his Beloved, who are driving back south. Their sole aim is to get to Tebay in time for the Tingle Creek, so we spoke of the perils of ice on the Stonehaven road and the brilliance of Sprinter Sacre.

Then it was time to take Stanley the Lurcher for his constitutional. My heart rather sank, because it was so filthy outside, and I had already got wet once that morning. I remembered my theory for the dirty days, which is to decide to look very hard for the small beauty. It is on days like this that I stare fixedly at tiny patches of lichen, and find the loveliness there.

The rather amazing thing is that once I start doing this, I find the gloriousness everywhere. The brittle biscuit colour of a beech leaf enchants me; the arrangement of the clouds, in five different shades of pigeon grey, delights; the moss on the old granite wall lifts my heart.

I’m always banging on about the small things. When I am melancholy, I cling on to the small things like life-rafts. A bird, a tree, a patch of blue sky; these are the things that stop me from drowning. As I stare at a particularly lovely bit of lichen, I think: in this, I am richer than the most gilded billionaire. It’s awfully hokey and chicken soup for the soully, but money really can’t buy you lichen. This, I think, this, is better than private jets and bottles of Bolly.

Then I think, because even when I am gazing at the beauty I have to keep thinking, that it’s sometimes quite hard to take pleasure in the small things. It’s a muscle, a habit that needs to be tended and practiced and honed. The temptation is to overlook the small things and want the huge things and then feel demoralised when you don’t get them. I think: this is a damn good muscle to use every day, and I must not neglect it.

Stanley and I play a most excellent game of ball. He is so happy he does not know what his name is. This too is better than private jets.

And now, there is more loveliness to look forward to. Possibly the most exciting horse in training, Sprinter Sacre, is coming out to strut his first stuff of the season. He is up against another thriller, Sanctuaire, who absolutely tore away with his last race at Sandown. They are both young, fearless, packed with natural talent. They both have a wildness in them: they are so eager to get on with it that if Barry Geraghty and Ruby Walsh were not such strong, complete horsemen, the horses would run away with them. I cannot wait to watch them. I feel like a child at Christmas.

So, the weather doesn’t matter, because I have these glittering horses to watch, and this sweet, funny new dog to throw a ball for, and the lichen to stare at. In these small things, I am richer than Croesus.

 

Today’s pictures:

The Dog of Joy:

My sweet winter equines, from earlier in the week:

Today’s hill gets many angles, because it was so fine:

And from the archive, the loveliest of lovelies, who gave me more pleasure than I can say:

PS. So hysterical about Sprinter Sacre that I wrote this rather fast, and with my heart beating. Not at all sure it makes any sense at all. Please forgive.