The Royal Meeting.

In the end, because I gave myself permission not to write the blog, I wanted to write the blog. I am stupidly cussed.

I was thinking, as I rode this morning, getting the mare to do her dowager duchess dressage diva schtick, which she eventually did after some persuasion, about the things about Ascot that I shall miss and those I shan’t.

In the very old days, I used to see my father in the Irish Bar, usually with a tall elegant gentleman whom he would introduce as ‘my friend Bill.’ My friend Bill, charming, very funny, dry as a bone, and so self-deprecating it was as if he had done a course, turned out to be a man of some distinction. I only discovered much later that he had fought with the Royal Hussars in the Second World War.

Eventually Dad turned against Ascot. He grew tired of the hats and the heels and the cocktail party crowds, and he lost so much money there each year that he said it was cheaper to go on holiday, so he would firmly take himself off abroad.

For a long time, I agreed with him. Pushing through crowds who are all looking the wrong way (at each other rather than at the horses) became rather dispiriting. There is a yahoo element that is a little bit sad. But however crowded it becomes, however many absurd tottery shoes there are, and self-parodying braying hoorahs, and people who don’t know a pastern from a hock, through it all runs the enduring element: the finest thoroughbreds in the world. So I went back.

I had forgotten how beautiful Ascot was. The new stand is perfectly hideous, but it is well-laid out and convenient, and it cannot take away from that ravishing emerald sward that opens up in front of it like a history book. The history lives, out on that storied course. It was Queen Anne who started the Royal Meeting, because she wanted something nice and close to Windsor, and it is from Windsor that our own dear Queen comes, trotting down the straight mile in her open carriage with her match greys, an elegant echo of her ancestress. A band, usually someone like the Welsh Guards, strikes up, and all the gentlemen take their top hats off and wave them, with old school courtesy, at their monarch. I understand perfectly well all the arguments against a hereditary monarchy, in this day and age, but when I see that, I get chills up my spine, and I love the Queen and all who sail in her. No race meeting in the world has such a beginning.

Up where the old paddock was, there is now the pre-parade ring, a gentle calm before the storm, with ancient trees and quiet grass, and a perfect hidden place right at the end where one can observe the dazzling athletes, walking round like old dressage horses, before they are saddled. It’s as hushed as a church service, and the only time I’ve seen it mobbed was when Black Caviar flew over from Australia, and every single trainer, even the jumps boys, poured into the place to catch a glimpse of the super-mare. In my secret spot, away from the crowds, there is usually just me and another reminder of the old Ascot, a lady of venerable age and immense chic (and sensible shoes), with whom I made friends, both of us being wild about the fillies.

I can’t go this year, and I shall miss that moment of communion in the pre-parade ring, the extraordinary privilege of getting up close to that much equine beauty and talent. Television can’t quite capture the full majesty of the thoroughbred; it’s as if half a dimension is missing. Frankel, who brought me back to Ascot for his rampaging Queen Anne victory, was much more fine and delicate and handsome in life than he was in front of the cameras. It sounds odd, but there’s something too about getting the smell of them, and seeing the relationship they have with their lads and lasses, and being able to look into their deep eyes.

I’ll miss the wild roar that starts when a favourite hits the front and starts to motor, a soaring, swelling sound, so visceral that it runs right through your body, so overwhelming that it brings on magical thinking. In that Frankel Queen Anne, I quite genuinely wondered whether the roof would come off the stands.

I’ll miss running into my racing friends. I like seeing George Baker, with whom I used to go and watch Desert Orchid when we were in our raw twenties. He loved racing so much that he chucked in a perfectly respectable job and took out a training licence. When I see him, he twinkles at me, all those old memories still alive, and says, with some amazement: ‘I’m living the dream.’ I’ll miss going to see the horses with James and Jacko Fanshawe. James Fanshawe is not a trainer that many people outside racing have ever heard of, he is so modest and low-key, but he’s a flat specialist who has won two Champion Hurdles. Most National Hunt trainers have not won one Champion Hurdle, so for a flat trainer to win two is something out of the common. He’s a horseman to his bones, and watching him assess a young sprinter is one of my all-time great pleasures. (His brother sold me the red mare, so the Fanshawe family is very, very high in my hall of fame.)

I won’t miss the frantic dash to the train and the panicky picking up of the tickets and the failure to find a seat and the rather tiring uphill walk to the course. I won’t miss the crowds and the queuing and having to canter my way through the throng in my sensible boots to see my equine heroines and heroes, and getting stuck with a dead bore just when I want to go and see a Best Beloved in the paddock. I’ll miss my sneaky half pints of ice-cold Guinness and making friends with the random American military gentlemen who seem to favour the Guinness bar. (I love a bit of gold braid.) I’ll miss the august old gents in their special uniforms who guard the entrance to the Royal Enclosure. I’ll miss the atmosphere.

But the television is a good show. Channel Four Racing, after a rocky start with its new team, have settled down into harness now, and Nick Luck with his sharp tailoring and his sense of humour and his enthusiasm has grown into an outstanding broadcaster. I can watch the replays and see clearly the pattern of each race. I don’t get that on the course, because my race glasses are usually shaking too much. I’ll still have a great shout, and Stanley the Dog will bark and jump up and down, and I’ve even shipped it in a bit of Guinness, which is very, very naughty on a school day.

It’s all power and glory. The best in the world, up against the best in the world. They are flying in from Australia, America, France, Ireland, Hong Kong and Japan. All those hopes and dreams, all that thought and care, all that breeding and brilliance will be out there, where the flying hooves thunder down the track. It really is like Christmas and Easter.
 
Here is the old lady, many of whose cousins will be running today, very happy that she is no longer required to do all that galloping at top speed nonsense:



I’m hoping that the cream will rise to the top today, and that Solow and Gleneagles do the business. If my old friend Sole Power can weave his way through the field with his thrilling late run, I shall cry tears of joy. And my each-way bet is the very lovely Buratino , a juvenile who is more exposed than his rivals, but with such a turn of foot that I hope he might see them off.
Be lucky, my darlings.

Ascot: Day Four. Or, two brave fillies and two remarkable women, and dreams coming true.

Author’s note: this is very, very long. It is about racing. But it is also about the human heart. There were too many stories here to be told, and I could not skimp them. So forgive the length. Indulgence if you like, but glory too.

 

All meeting, there are two things I quietly, almost secretly, dreamed might happen. They were in the hardly-dare-hope category. Then, after all the drama of the week so far, they suddenly both happened, as if they had been inevitable all along.

Yesterday morning, with my forensic betting hat on, I had picked Lady Cecil’s nice filly Riposte for the Ribblesdale, because she was the only one of the principles who had winning form over the distance. Ascot is a deceptively testing course. From a distance, on the television cameras, it looks gorgeously smooth and flat, but in fact it has nuanced undulations and a stiff uphill climb. 

Trainers are not idiots. They do not want to be disgraced on this biggest of stages. They will not send horses here if they think they will not stay. But still, that little D by the side of Riposte flashed at me like a beacon.

I took eights first thing, for a paltry amount. I was still flinty and scientific, admitting doubts; the filly was stepping up in class, she had something to prove. I was damn well not going to let my heart rule everything.

I’ve been watching the Cecil horses all week, hoping and hoping, longing for the memory of Sir Henry to set the crowd alight. There has been a close call with Tiger Cliff, but as the days went on, I started to resist the siren song. Dick Francis once wrote: ‘There are no fairy tales in racing.’ I bashed down the fired expectations.

But as the off grew closer, even as Winsili wavered and then hardened as the favourite, I decided that my lovely Riposte would give the best riposte of all. I threw last-minute cash at her, in the way I often do, as if the horse herself would detect my lack of loyalty if I ratted.

I did not say any of this out loud. I did not want to raise my mother’s hopes. I said, diffidently: ‘I quite like the look of this Riposte.’ And that was all.

As the stalls smacked open and Simon Holt began his call, Riposte imitated her close relation Frankel in his last start on this very course.

She fell out, completely missing the break. Oh, well, I thought, privately, that’s that. It’s very difficult to remedy that lost start. Tom Queally had to roust her along without setting her alight. For a moment, as he pushed her into the race, it looked as if she might boil over. But then the good girl came back to herself and settled into her running. She was still on the outside, towards the back, but she had found her rhythm.

At half way, she had settled and was running well within herself. But there were still only two horses behind her. Then Queally, cleverly, patiently, started to creep into the race, his sympathetic hands nursing his girl along.

And then, at about two out, he did something radical, even rash. He gave Riposte a great push, asking for a huge burst of speed. Again like her illustrious relation, she put on her sprinting shoes, passed five horses in a matter of seconds, and hit the front. In a flash, she was out on her own; nothing in front of her but a wide, searching sward of green.

Would she last up that testing incline? Would that intense effort have taken too much out of her? Would she get lonely out in front, all on her own?

All these questions muddled through my mind. But the lovely filly had every answer. She never deviated, running straight and true to the line under only hands and heels, spread-eagling her field.

Without at all meaning to, I burst into tears. I do this in big races in which I am absurdly emotionally invested. I did it for Desert Orchid, all those years ago, when he defied a mud-splattered afternoon and fought his way up the murderous Cheltenham hill, running on fumes and guts and glory. I did it for Kauto Star’s great comeback at Haydock on that dour autumn day, when everyone said he was finished. I did it for Frankel at York, when people were not quite sure if the wonder colt would see out the mile and two.

It is what my old Irish godmother describes, vividly, as ‘tears coming out at right angles’. I don’t think I’d realised until that moment how much I had put into this good filly, how the memories of Sir Henry rode on her honest back, how the thought of that grieving team at Warren Place had infected my racing spirit.

Normally, when a jockey passes the post in front at the Royal Meeting, there is the instant flashing smile of victory. It is the dream of every rider on the flat to win here. But Tom Queally did not smile.

He did that thing with his mouth that you do when you are fighting tears. The muscles tightened and the corners turned down and the face set. He is not a man of public emotion. One sensed that if he had been alone he would have cried like a baby. As it was, he was fighting to hold it together on this most public of stages.

He just put his hand out, and ran it over Riposte’s ear, with the exact gentle touch that Sir Henry had for his fillies. As the camera angle shifted, the jockey’s back was slumped and head bowed, as if in defeat.

The microphone was stuck in his face, and he said, on a long breath: ‘It’s been a tough, tough week, and I know a lot of people are struggling. But it’s great she did as well as she did and I’m sure Henry’s looking down and helping us.’

Queally had that raw, disbelieving look on his face that I remember so well from when my father died. The lovely victory must have brought it all back for him. Sir Henry’s death was not a surprise; he had been ill for years. But with men like that, impossible thinking sets in. You believe they will defy the docs and live forever. I had a message from someone who lives in Newmarket only today, saying she still could not believe that she would walk down the street and not see him. Men like that are institutions, stitched into the life of the place they embody. Death seems stupid and impossible.

The camera pulled back to show the stalwart travelling head lad, his face bleak as granite. The young lass, leading in her conquering heroine, was unable to keep up the facade and dissolved into open tears.

Then came the most poignant moment of all. Lady Cecil, who has taken over the licence from her late husband, rushed forward in the winner’s enclosure, going straight for Queally. The two hugged, and in that hard embrace you could see all the tension that comes with great loss. There must have been so many moments on the Heath when it was the three of them, so many breakfasts, so many post-mortems, of triumph or disappointment. There is a thing, when you lose someone, of wanting the person who understands the most. In that winner’s circle, at Ascot, with the colours of Prince Khalid Abdullah shining like a beacon just as they had in Frankel’s last, mighty victory, I think that for Lady Cecil, Tom Queally understood the most.

At this stage, Lady Cecil’s face had the raw, undefended look of someone who has suffered tearing loss. But she was in front of the world. She had to step up to the microphone. Clare Balding, with every inch of her sensitivity and professionalism, conducted what must have been one of the hardest interviews of her career. She knew all these people; she had grown up with them; there was no disinterested distance for her. But she was on national television; she had to ask the questions.

Looking back on it now, I am amazed that Lady Cecil did not just walk away. Connections who have nothing like her excuse have; I’ve watched famous owners ruthlessly snub post-race interviewers. And yet, in one of the most graceful acts I have seen on a racecourse, she generously offered herself, in all her loss, squaring her shoulders and lifting her face up in its naked emotion.

She looked up to the sky, gathered a faltering smile, and said: ‘First of all, that was for Henry.’

There was a terrible pause.

‘For the Prince, and for all the staff at Warren Place.’

Then she rallied. ‘I don’t really have the words to say what I am feeling.’

Bugger everything, I thought; there are no words. And yet this tremendous woman kept on. ‘He was just adored, by so many people. I mean, people who’ve never met him, just loved him. And...’ She shook her head, running out of words. ‘What can I say?’

Another sympathetic question from Balding; another brave answer.

‘We hardly dared dream that we would have a winner. I just thought, God he would have been relishing this. Everyone knows how he loves Ascot.’

And there it was, the present tense. The most revealing, moving moment of all; the marker that the master of Warren Place is not yet gone in the minds and hearts of those who loved him.

And then she tailed off, and Clare Balding moved in to rescue her. ‘You need say nothing more, you’ve been so brave, so strong. Well done.’

But Lady Cecil was not finished. Like her lovely, fighting filly, she took another run at it. ‘Keeping busy, is what’s keeping us all going. If we had nothing to do, I think we’d all fall to bits.’

Clare Balding, the seasoned pro, faltered herself, in the midst of that boiling cauldron of emotion. Suddenly hardly able to get her own words out, she said, almost in a whisper: ‘It’s the best result of all.’

And the sweetest thing was that the cameras then cut to Riposte, being led away, her intelligent ears pricked, her kind eye gleaming and bright, her head held high. The good ones, the competitive ones, tend to know when they have won. Tom Queally said once of Frankel that as the colt seasoned and grew in stature, he began to understand that the noise and acclamation which should really alarm a flight animal was in fact a homage. ‘He soaked it all up; he knew it was for him,’ Queally said after York.

Riposte is not in that legendary category. She is a nice filly, with a lovely talent and a willing attitude; she may rise to some heights, but perhaps she will not go down in history like her imperious relation. But all the same, in that moment, she had a little look of eagles in her fine eye.

There were many things for which Sir Henry Cecil was famous. One of them was being good with fillies. Wining the Oaks eight times was not a fluke. Bizarrely, there is sexism in the horse world just as there is in the human. People talk of fillies and mares being difficult, unpredictable, hormonal. Mare-ish is a horrid, lazy insult, casually hurled. But I think what Henry Cecil knew is what anyone who has loved and worked with a female equine carries in their heart. If you are gentle and kind and patient with a filly, she will give you everything, every last inch of loyalty and trust and fighting spirit. So it was intensely appropriate that in this dramatic week, in this Royal Meeting which started with a minute of silence for its native son, it was one of his girls who came good for the old fellow.

At which point, there was the rushing realisation that this was not yet the end of the drama of this extraordinary day. The very next race was the Gold Cup, the showpiece of the week. In some ways, it is a ridiculous race. It is two and a half miles, which is a distance some jumpers struggle to manage. Most flat horses are simply not bred to run this far. There was a huge field, although, because of the fast ground, runners were dropping like flies. The promising High Jinx was out; Dermot Weld decided he could not risk the delicate legs of Rite of Passage. At the top of the market, driven there by a combination of sentiment and hope, was the little bay filly, Estimate.

Estimate belongs to the Queen. Last June, I was there to watch her win the Queen’s Vase, to extravagant emotion, in the jubilee year. I fell in love with her then and I have followed her ever since. She is a lightly-built filly; she does not look like a mighty stayer. But she has a dreamy temperament and the will to win, and she is improving all the time.

Still, on paper, she had something to find. The trip was four whole furlongs into the unknown; on strict official ratings, she was well down the field of fourteen. She would have to produce a rampant career best.

As I had with Riposte, I resisted my stupid soft heart, and tried to find the rivals who would bring her low. Simenon was the danger, I decided, with proven form at course and distance, and the wizard that is Willie Mullins in charge.

But again, as the start neared, I gave in to the heart, and bashed all my money on the little mare. Yes, she was up against the boys; yes, it was a fairy tale too far; yes, she had something to find on the book. But blast it, I wanted her more than anything, and if anything could find that little bit extra for the big occasion, she could.

She is such a kind and genuine horse. Channel Four showed a clip of her in her stable, and she was as dopey and dreamy and affectionate as a dear old donkey, nuzzling up to her lass, making silly faces, soaking up the love of her faithful companion. It’s not often you see a top-class racehorse do that, and it made me fall more in love with her than ever. Bugger the book I thought; this is my girl.

And I switch into the present tense, because it feels in my head like it is happening all over again.

As Estimate goes round the paddock, with her owner watching intently, she impresses with her big race temperament. On a warm day, there is not a hint of white sweat on her bay flanks. Then, suddenly, without in any way becoming flighty or over-wrought, she gives two little bucks. They are balanced perfectly on the fulcrum of exuberance and determination. They sketch an arching parabola of intent. My mother and I look at each other, hope rising in our eyes.

‘She’s ready,’ we say. ‘Oh yes. She is ready.’

The late cash comes pouring in, who knows from where. The seasoned paddock watchers, the sentimental royalists. Estimate shortens into 7-2, veering violently from sixes this morning. I add my cash to the party. I’ve loved this horse for a long time; I damned if I am going to let my old loyalties lapse. I can see all the doubts for what they are. But my money must be where my mouth is.

Estimate comes out onto the course, on her own. She canters down to the start with her head high and her ears pricked, collected and balanced, looking around her as if taking in every inch of the fine spectacle. She has a little white snip on her dear nose, and in my fevered mind, it starts to blaze like a flashing sign.

And, they are off.

The sultry summer’s day turns misty, and through a sudden murk, Estimate’s snip shows brightly. She takes up a good position, one off the rail, four lengths off the pace. Ryan Moore, a jockey who is currently riding out of his skin, lets her down and gets her beautifully settled, so her natural rhythm can assert itself. Her long, narrow ears go back and forth in time with her hoofbeats.

Past the packed stands they go. The faint sounds of whistles and applause can be heard, before they are off again into the country, where the race will begin to unfold.

The massive white-faced German raider is running strongly in front, tracked by the two staying stars, Colour Vision and Saddler’s Rock. Estimate is tidily tucked in behind. Into Swinley Bottom, she is perhaps the most well-balanced of the entire field, happy in her running.

Four out, the field bunches up. ‘There is Estimate,’ says Simon Holt, his voice rising, ‘with every chance.’

Jockeys are starting to crouch lower now, not yet kicking on, but indicating an increased momentum. Ryan Moore is rocking Estimate gently into a quicker rhythm. Colour Vision, who won this last year but has been disastrously out of form ever since, is suddenly full of running. The brilliant Johnny Murtagh is releasing Saddler’s Rock. Simenon is suddenly unleashing a withering run down the outside. In the midst of this, in a small pocket of her own, Estimate is quietly running her race.

And then Moore asks the question, after over two miles of searching turf, and Estimate answers. The answer is: Yes.

She surges forwards, chasing the mighty grey in the Godolphin colours. She gets past him, inch by inch, but the race is not done. Two big fellas come charging at her, down the outside; the Irish Simenon, the French Top Trip.

All three horses are now in full cry. They are so close together you could not put a cigarette paper between them. For a horrible moment, I think that the filly will be swallowed up by the roaring colts.

At home, in our house, with the blue Scottish hills visible though the window and the bluebirds questing at the window, everything erupts. The Younger Brother and I are on our feet, bawling at the tops of our voices. My old mum, who has seen Nijinsky and Mill Reef and the Brigadier, is shouting: ‘COME ON RYAN’. Stanley the Dog, who clearly believes we have suffered some kind of catastrophic event, is howling and jumping and barking his head off. Only the sensible Stepfather is sitting quietly, riveted to the action, a small oasis of calm in the storm.

I look away, unable to watch, convinced the brave filly is beat. It’s too much to ask; it’s too much to hope. She’s never been anywhere near this distance before; only the very best fillies are capable of beating the colts. She’ll fade, fold up, be done on the line.

But I turn back, and there she is, with her little head stuck out, her glorious stride lengthening not shortening, every atom in her body speaking of her will to win. I gather one last stupid howl of hope. GO ON GO ON GO ON, I shout, ignoring the family, ignoring the leaping dog, ignoring everything except the fierce battle of those last, terrifying strides.

Simenon’s determined head comes up to Estimate’s shoulder, the great momentum of his powerful quarters pushing him forward. Will the bloody finishing post ever come?

But then, with no dramatics at all, the good filly just keeps going, and there is the line, and she has a precious neck in hand, and Ryan Moore is crouched up almost at her ears, carrying her over the finish.

‘I CAN’T BELIEVE IT,’ I shout.

As if my entire family is deaf, I yell again: ‘I CAN’T BELIEVE IT.’

We hug, we jump in the air, we weep idiot tears of joy.

It’s just a horse. It’s just an old lady in a lilac dress. It’s just a race.

On any rational level, it is hard to know which is more absurd: the racing of horses or the hereditary monarchy. But humans are not rational animals. Even in the most empirical of us, the magical thinking sometimes overwhelms. I can’t help it: I love the Queen. I love her for her dignity and restraint and good old British stoicism. I love Estimate, for her sweetness and strength and bloody-minded determination not to give up. I swear she had a Fuck You Boys look in her eye as she flashed past the post. And I love racing, where these beautiful herd animals may show all their mighty, fighting qualities.

And so I shouted and cried and leapt in the air, even though I am forty-six years old and I should know better.

The filly came in, the Queen walked down to greet her, the crowd went insane. People did not know what to do with themselves. The little golden cup was presented, and the Queen, who really has been around the block more than most, who has been coming to Ascot since the fifties, who knows all about the dreams of horses not quite coming true, stared at it as if she had never seen it before. She looked as delighted and disbelieving as a child.

And that, my darlings, was Ladies’ Day at Ascot, when four tremendous females, two equine and two human, wrote a story that will stay stitched into the memory of everyone lucky enough to have witnessed it.

Bonus post: I pay homage to Estimate. Or, memories of the Queen’s Vase.

You will know by now that the scriptwriters threw away caution and probability, and wrote the fairy tale.

Estimate won the Gold Cup for the Queen: a brave little filly sticking her neck out to see off the big boys. I’ll write about it tomorrow at extravagant length, because it was one of the best things I’ve ever seen in racing. Sometimes I have to resort to cliché, because only cliché will do: there was not a dry eye in the house.

In honour of the great moment, I’m putting up the post that I wrote during this week last year, when Estimate won the Queen’s Vase.

I remember vividly going down to see her in the pre-parade ring, and fearing for her; she was so slight and mere compared to the great, muscled colts that she was up against. She’s grown bigger and stronger with age, but she is still a delicate-looking sort of lady, and today she had a packed field and a doughty set of stayers taking her on. But whilst she may not be physically huge, what she does have is a bottomless, never-say-die, mighty racing heart.

This is what I wrote, one year ago:

In the Queen's Vase, the Queen herself had a nice filly called Estimate. She'd won well at Salisbury last time out but this was a big step up in class and trip. She went off favourite, mostly I think because of sentimental Jubilee year bets. I had thought she might have the right stuff, but then I saw her in the ring, and she was a small mare, narrow in the neck, with a sweet but plain face. It was two miles, and the other horses looked so big and muscled and powerful by comparison.

And, I thought, it really would be too good to be true, on this Diamond Jubilee.
The ordinary little brown mare galloped to the front and did not stop and won as she liked. The crowd went mad. Posh gentlemen took their hats off and waved them in the air as if they were at a football match.

I rushed to the winner's enclosure. There was Estimate, suddenly looking rather beautiful, flushed with her great victory. 'Where is she? Is she there?' said people in the crowd, looking around for the Queen. Would her Majesty descend from the Royal box? Yes, she would. There she was, walking across the grass, and cheers and whoops and roars rang out.

Suddenly, everyone realised it was the Queen's Vase, which meant the cup would be presented by a member of the royal family. 'I suppose she can't really present it to herself,' said the lady next to me, laughing happily. 'Your Majesty, here is your cup, well done. Oh, thank you Your Majesty.' Everyone was very excited by this stage. The Queen, serene in lilac, was smiling all over her face, and giving Estimate a regal pat.

Then, the ramrod nautical figure of Prince Philip appeared, and picked up the trophy, and gave it to his wife. I know it's silly to get soft about the Queen, but I am quite silly, and I have to say I had a tear in my eye. There was something so touching about the two old people and the young filly and the cup and the delirious crowd. The lady next to me was wiping her eyes.

My mother, when I rang an hour later, was still misty with emotion. 'You know,' I said, 'there really was nothing to her, that filly, but she ran like a titan.'

'Oh, she was glorious,' said my mother.

'But then,' I said, 'it's sometimes the way with those great mares. Dunfermline wasn't much to look at; Quevega is just an ordinary brown mare.'

'Yes,' said my mother. 'Sometimes, if they look too much like flashy colts, they are not much good.'

I told her the story of the Queen and the crowd in the winning enclosure, and the whoops and the cheers and the clapping.

I walked away with a big fat smile on my face, even though I had not a penny on that filly. I probably should be a grouchy old republican, but I can't help it, I love the Queen. Her untrammelled delight when her brave little horse won her that shiny cup really was one of the sweetest things I've seen in racing.

So, it was a great day.

 

A great day indeed. And now we have had another to match it.

Ascot, Day Three. Cometh the hour, cometh the man.

The thrilling thing about the Royal Meeting is that it throws up stories, as if a seasoned old scriptwriter had sat down, thrown every last shred of cautious professionalism to the four winds, and let rip.

If the first day was about a horse, when Dawn Approach rose from the ashes like a fiery phoenix, the second day was about a man. The man is a very young one; polite, soft-spoken, modest. He is, without flash or fanfare, very, very good at his job. That talent, only three years ago, did not seem enough. In 2010, James Doyle was so disillusioned with race riding that he booked himself onto a plumbing course. Yesterday, at the age of 25, he rode his first winner at the Royal Meeting, when Al Kazeem vanquished Camelot and a field of top-flight rivals in the big contest of the day.

The shattering highs and lows of racing could not have been more vividly illustrated. Only half an hour before, Doyle had gone out on the talented filly Thistle Bird. He must have been full of hopes. But, once again the ultimate mystery struck. Thistle Bird ran no race, labouring away from miles out, never looking likely. They may take her home and scope her and find some muck in her lungs, or it may have to be a puzzle that remains forever unsolved, the kind of thing where, as racing people say, you just have to put a line through it. James Doyle was so despondent that he could hardly construct complete sentences when interviewed afterwards in the weighing room by Mick Fitzgerald.

Then fortune turned topsy-turvy, and Al Kazeem came powering down the straight like a titan, after Paul Hanagan had slipped the field and must have thought he had the race in the bag. It was a brilliant ride by Doyle because the older jockey, canny and tactical as the day is long, had gone on the bend, and taken the field a bit by surprise. But James Doyle was alive to the move, shook his own fella up so that he would not have too much to do, and in the end, reeled in Mukhadram in a thrilling finish.

Suddenly, the young jockey was all blinding smiles and eloquent words. The bleak start to the day was forgotten.

That lovely victory would have been enough for anyone. But in the next hour, the improbable happened. A dear old handicapper called Belgian Bill suddenly decided to have his day in the sun, and in the muddling cavalry charge that is the Royal Hunt Cup, he powered through the huge field, ignoring a pocket here or a lack of gap there, and put his determined head in front. (According to his trainer, the auld fella loves a bit of trouble in running, as it keeps him amused. That’s the kind of horse that really captures my heart.)

At 33-1, Belgian Bill might not have been on James Doyle’s list of sure things for the meeting, but the old horse made it look inevitable, and the price in hindsight stupidly long.

It was an enchanting result for another reason. The trainer, George Baker, has been going for about five years, and this was his first winner at the Royal Meeting. That is a huge milestone in any trainer’s life. It makes all the wet Wednesdays at Wolverhampton and the demoralised trips back from Ripon worth it. The memory of that moment will brighten the dark winter mornings and warm the heart when the snow lies thick on the gallops. ‘It’s what you dream of,’ said Baker, smiling with disbelief.

James Doyle, by this stage, looked as if someone had transported him into a fairytale where he was riding unicorns heralded by choirs of angels. But it still was his day at the office, so after the sunshine and congratulation, he had to run back into the weighing room to change into the vivid yellow colours of Rizeena. Many of the races at Ascot are impossible, but the Queen Mary seemed particularly hard to unpick. It was a big field of very talented fillies; one of those things where you could make a brilliant case for six or seven. On impulse, I had twenty quid on Rizeena, because she’d won so impressively before, and because confidence does run down the reins, and James Doyle was at that moment the most confident man in three counties.

She bolted up. There was not a single moment’s doubt. James Doyle, who had never ridden a winner at the meeting before, who almost became a plumber, had suddenly chalked up three triumphs at the greatest flat fixture in the world in under ninety minutes. And the especially lovely thing about the last one was that it was for Clive Brittain, a trainer who is almost eighty, and who likes to do a special dance in the winner’s enclosure after a victory. Sure enough, there he was, doing a little soft shoe shuffle, joking with Clare Balding, who had to use all her professional skills not to break down in hopeless laughter, whilst the happy crowds clapped and cheered around him.

I am all about the horses. I love these thoroughbreds as if they were my own. I admire them for their beauty, their brilliance, their courage, their mystery. But yesterday was really about humans. One trainer is starting his journey, and one is ending it, and they would both have felt the exact same euphoria. And one jockey has suddenly had all his dreams granted, as if the fates woke up that morning and alighted on his good shoulders with all their beneficence and grace, and lent him wings.

My mother stirred herself. ‘What a very nice young man that is,’ she said.

Today, it could be the mighty moment for the Queen, if dear little Estimate could win The Gold Cup. I watched Estimate canter away with the Queen’s Vase last year to riotous applause, but this is a stiffer test, and there are plenty of good challengers to foil her dream. But if yesterday showed anything, it is that dreams do sometimes come true. So I’ll cross my fingers for Her Majesty and her lovely filly.

For the rest, I remain mostly baffled. I’d love Riposte to run a big race for Lady Cecil, and I think Mark Johnston might just have a chance with Maputo. The Johnston horses tend to be amazingly tough and genuine, as if there is something in the good Yorkshire water, and always give their running. My each-way fancy is Elkaayed for Roger Varian. I have never met Roger Varian in my life but I love him because he looks more like a professor of ancient history than a trainer and he is always so courteous and modest. And he has excellent tailoring.

But it’s Ascot; anything could happen. The only thing I do know is that there will be more stories to tell.

The Royal Meeting: Day One. Or, things do not go exactly to plan.

My fingers are actually shaking as I write this. My heart is banging like a big bass drum. It is because finally, after all the anticipation and the discussion and the questions and the waiting, the Royal Meeting is finally here.

My special holiday for the occasion did not get off to a flying start. My mind was so mazed with trying to work out whether Animal Kingdom would win the Queen Anne that I could not sleep. I finally drifted off in the smallest of the small hours, and slept straight through my alarm. My cunning plan had been to rise at seven-thirty, rush to the shop to buy the Racing Post, get out the notebook and give forensic attention to the form. Instead, I was cantering about like a loose horse all morning, hours late.

Even though I am officially on a break, I still decided I must do my HorseBack work. I had another plan for that: go very quickly there, take five pictures, rush back, do the Facebook page for which I am responsible, and then turn all my attention to the racing. Instead, when I got there, I was so enchanted by the lovely herd that I ended up standing in a field for fifteen minutes, looking out over the Deeside hills, chatting to two of their dearest mares. They stood, calm and dozy, like two auld wifies in their Scottish fastness, happily giving me their heads for some love and scratching. My heart stopped beating wildly for ten minutes, and stillness descended.

So now there is no time for the forensic form. I’m going to have to bet on gut and love, which is how I often gamble anyway. I’m all in on the global star Animal Kingdom. Despite the fact that Ascot represents an entirely different test from anything he has faced before, I think he has the mighty class to see him through. It’s a bit of a fairy tale, if he can do it; to come from the tough dirt of the Kentucky Derby to the emerald green straight mile of the Royal Meeting would be a story indeed.

The extraordinary thing about Ascot is that three of the most thrilling and highest grade races of the whole meeting come on the first day, boom boom boom, like silver bullets from a pointed gun. The reason that the whole week is so delirious is that all the superstars are here, primed for the occasion. It is the moment in the season when horses should be in their pomp. They have cast off their spring rustiness, felt the sun on their mighty backs, gained race fitness and experience. The babies will have had their education; the veterans will be remembering all their talent and moxy. Trainers will have laid out runners especially for this moment, bringing their precious cargo carefully to their crest and peak. And yet there are still mysteries. Not all the stories have yet been told; there is always the space for an improver to come out of the pack like a joker.

It is magnificent because it is steeped in history and the kind of absurd but lovely pageantry and pomp that only the British can really do without embarrassment. When the Queen is carried up the straight mile in her carriage pulled by the splendid match greys, three hundred years of tradition come with her. Even in these rushing, technological days, gentlemen still doff their shining top hats, in a rather touching display of old world courtliness.

It is a festival of beauty too. Ascot is one of the prettiest courses in England, from the gleaming sweep of its storied straight mile, where last year Frankel soared into immortality, to the wooded bends of Swinley Bottom, where so many dreams have been fulfilled and crashed. In the quiet of the pre-parade ring, where the horses are saddled in the dim cool of serried boxes, venerable old trees spread their benign branches over the equine athletes, in their last moment of calm before the hurly burly starts.

And there are the horses themselves, an aesthetic feast of perfect confirmation, shining coats, gleaming muscle, intelligent heads. A finely-bred thoroughbred in the month of June gladdens the eye like almost nothing else. Last year, when I flew south for the whole five days, it was not just to watch the racing; I wanted to gaze on all those brave, bonny creatures until I could look no more. I ruthlessly refused to socialise. I just wanted to fill my head with beauty.

And so it shall be today, this time on the television. I’ll have a few bets, but Ascot is famously impossible. My old dad used to fly abroad for the week, because it was the only way he could avoid the temptation of the betting shop, where he knew he would lose hundreds of pounds. Going on holiday was cheaper, he used to say. I want Animal Kingdom to win like the champion he is, and I’ve had a few quid on his lovely back. I’d like to see Toronado run his race, after disappointing in the Guineas, but at the same time, it would be tear-jerking to see Dawn Approach avenge his Derby debacle. If Lady Cecil could win with Tiger Cliff in the long-distance test, for the memory of Sir Henry, there would not be a dry eye in the house. Although I think the dark horse Homeric might run a huge race at 12-1. I can’t work out the sprints at all, because I can never work out the sprints.

So I will be shouting Come on my son, but not for much money. Mostly for love and beauty. They are all champions, these brilliant creatures, and over the next five days, they shall give more pleasure than they know.

 

No time for pictures. Just one, of the two dear, dozy girls with whom I spent the morning, about as far away from hats and trumpets and champion bloodlines as you can get. But none the less lovely for all that:

The brain stutters and stalls. But dear Estimate is back with a bang.

Work. Other work. Other work. One more piece of vital work.

The last of these has the potential to translate into actual game-changing cash and is being sent to some very important people indeed. It is not for me, so I feel the weight of responsibility on my shoulders as I type the words.

Sweet mare; funny dog. Stan has taken to burying his favourite sticks in little piles of leaves all about the woods. He tenderly covers the things by pushing the fallen leaves into place with his nose. It is all done with the utmost care and delicacy. I stand and watch, entranced.

I run around, chasing time.

At 3.35pm, I take five minutes to watch one of my favourite fillies, Estimate, run at Ascot. I was there when she won the Queen’s Vase last season, and it was one of the most touching moments I ever saw on a racecourse, as the Duke of Edinburgh presented the trophy to the Queen, who looked just as any octogenarian would after a beloved filly routed the big boys over two miles. (Estimate is one of those little tough ordinary-looking fillies of the kind I love the most. She has nothing physically flashy about her, but she contains heart of a lioness.)

She wins her first race back as a four-year-old, looking easily impressive, and I put her in my notebook, where she belongs.

More work.

Brain falters and crashes like an old computer.

And then, I write this, before I stop like a busted old clock.

 

Today’s pictures:

Are entirely random:

I had many favourite moments of the day, but this was perhaps the most favourite. The HorseBack herd was reunited, after spending the winter in two separate places, and everyone was moved into different fields for the spring. Here Archie and Mikey greet each other with all the decorum of storied ambassadors at a diplomatic reception:

Stan the Man, laughing:

Red the Mare, duchessing:

Hill:

You can see from the changing light in the pictures that we had four seasons in one day, as May blew in. Blinding sun, east winds, sudden squalls of rain, dramatic moments of sleetish hail, quiet grey cloud. Enough to blow all the cobwebs away.

The glory of Gatewood, and other animals

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

There are lots of different kinds of glory in racing. There is the perfect, untouchable, up on the high plains kind, which we saw on Tuesday, with the immaculate run of Frankel. There are the great weight-carrying performances, and the brilliant tactical rides. There are the wild surprise outsiders, who come up the rails, laughing at the pundits and the tipsters and the punters. There is the dear old dog who finally has his day. (I saw a horse who had lost something like 28 races finally have his first win at a small track a couple of weeks ago, and I felt as happy for him as if he were mine.)

Today, it was the glory of guts.

One of my favourite horses, Gatewood, was running in the Wolferton Handicap. The Wolferton is not the most glamorous or richest race at the royal meeting, but like all the handicaps at Ascot, it is tough to win. I had completely lost my heart to Gatewood when he won three weeks ago at Epsom, coming from last to first, encountering some trouble in running, but refusing to lie down. He stuck his head out and would not give up and prevailed. It's lovely watching a mighty champion streak away on the bridle, with many lengths in hand, but it's just as thrilling, perhaps in some ways even more so, to see those really gutsy animals who dig deep and give all they've got, and win by a neck.

Gatewood is one of the most genuine horses I've seen in training. But he had a hard race at Epsom, and had not had that long to recover. As I watched him, down in the pre-parade ring, he looked well, but slightly subdued. He is a neat, beautifully put together horse, but not a flashy type. He was not preening or giving out looks of eagles, or even on his toes. I could not tell whether this is because he has a lovely temperament, or whether that recent battle had left its scars. Some horses thrive on pressure; they are those flinty types who improve with constant demands and running. Others need to be nurtured and wrapped in cotton wool, and must have plenty of recuperation time.

Certainly, in the paddock, there were others who looked in more obviously fine fettle, but I stuck with dear Gatewood, out of sheer love. The form was all there, it was just a question of what that last race had taken out of him. No one would know until he was out there on the green turf.

Off they set. It was a mile and two, sweeping out of the round course and into the straight. Gatewood was well positioned in fourth. A wall of horses thundered down to the two furlong pole. My fella was asked for his effort. For a moment, I thought that he would not, could not, respond. I started shouting, slightly to the surprise of the venerable lady to my left. Then the horse picked up, and game and glorious and gutsy as he is, put every last ounce of effort into it, and flashed past the winning post by a head.

I erupted in joy. The beauty turned, and cantered back past me, his fine legs stretching out in a daisy cutter action, his head lifted in triumph, his ears pricked. His young jockey, the marvellous William Buick, was bright red in the face, from happiness, from exhaustion. The horse gazed at the stands, applauding him, and there, even though he is not a famous group one champion, was the look of eagles in his dear old eyes.

Gatewood is a talented horse, he is beautifully bred (related to Red the Mare, of course, of course, through Northern Dancer, their common great-grandsire), he is not a mug. But I swear he won that race on heart alone.

It had been a lovely day for me. I had an excellent punt on the dancing filly Newfangled, who romped home in the first. Then, another of my favourites, Astrology, could not quite do it in the second, but I love him so I forgive him everything. The Derby took it out of him, I think. Then, there was the big race, which I could not untangle. I did something I never do. I went on my pick of the paddock. Often, when you see the horses before a race, there are three or four who stand out. It can be a mug's game, because there are some horses which are slow as tractors but look gorgeous. My dear Red is a perfect example of this. She is physically glorious, has a beautiful action, and, in racing terms, is the most sluggish of slow coaches.

But before the Coronation Stakes, I fell completely in love with a John Gosden filly called Fallen for You. I had fallen for her in ten seconds. She stood out by a country mile. She had so much presence, and such character, and she gleamed and glowed with health. She was one of the most bonny fillies I have seen this week. She was 16-1 on the Tote and I put a fiver on each way, again, for sheer love.

She bolted up. I actually stopped shouting for a moment because I was so speechless with amazement. I've never done that before in my life. Pick of the paddock, baby.

Gatewood was also trained by John Gosden, and it was particularly lovely seeing him have such mighty victories today, because he suffered a horrible tragedy when his delightful horse, The Nile, broke its leg on the first day in a hideous incident, and had to be put down. It's pretty rare to see flat horses do this, but it reminds one how fragile they are, as well as how brave and tough. Those brilliant legs can go, from the mere fact of a wrong angle.

Then, an even more lovely thing happened. In the Queen's Vase, the Queen herself had a nice filly called Estimate. She'd won well at Salisbury last time out but this was a big step up in class and trip. She went off favourite, mostly I think because of sentimental Jubilee year bets. I had thought she might have the right stuff, but then I saw her in the ring, and she was a small mare, narrow in the neck, with a sweet but plain face. It was two miles, and the other horses looked so big and muscled and powerful by comparison.

And, I thought, it really would be too good to be true, on this Diamond Jubilee.

The ordinary little brown mare galloped to the front and did not stop and won as she liked. The crowd went mad. Posh gentlemen took their hats off and waved them in the air as if they were at a football match.

I rushed to the winner's enclosure. There was Estimate, suddenly looking rather beautiful, flushed with her great victory. 'Where is she? Is she there?' said people in the crowd, looking around for the Queen. Would her Majesty descend from the Royal box? Yes, she would. There she was, walking across the grass, and cheers and whoops and roars rang out.

Suddenly, everyone realised it was the Queen's Vase, which meant the cup would be presented by a member of the royal family. 'I suppose she can't really present it to herself,' said the lady next to me, laughing happily. 'Your Majesty, here is your cup, well done. Oh, thank you Your Majesty.' Everyone was very excited by this stage. The Queen, serene in lilac, was smiling all over her face, and giving Estimate a regal pat.

Then, the ramrod nautical figure of Prince Philip appeared, and picked up the trophy, and gave it to his wife. I know it's silly to get soft about the Queen, but I am quite silly, and I have to say I had a tear in my eye. There was something so touching about the two old people and the young filly and the cup and the delirious crowd. The lady next to me was wiping her eyes.

My mother, when I rang an hour later, was still misty with emotion. 'You know,' I said, 'there really was nothing to her, that filly, but she ran like a titan.'

'Oh, she was glorious,' said my mother.

'But then,' I said, 'it's sometimes the way with those great mares. Dunfermline wasn't much to look at; Quevega is just an ordinary brown mare.'

'Yes,' said my mother. 'Sometimes, if they look too much like flashy colts, they are not much good.'

I told her the story of the Queen and the crowd in the winning enclosure, and the whoops and the cheers and the clapping.

I walked away with a big fat smile on my face, even though I had not a penny on that filly. I probably should be a grouchy old republican, but I can't help it, I love the Queen. Her untrammelled delight when her brave little horse won her that shiny cup really was one of the sweetest things I've seen in racing.

So, it was a great day.

Sunday Jubilee

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

It was a really happy day.

Very early, I went up to see the mare. She raised her head, whinnied, and cantered from the farthest corner of the field, swirled to a halt in front of me, raising a dramatic cloud of dust, ducked her head, and whickered. She has never done that before. She usually waits, regally, as if she is the Queen herself, for me to come to her. I felt as if she had given me a huge present, and showered her with love and carrots, both of which she seemed to find eminently acceptable.

I did two thousand words.

Then I thought, bugger it, I’m supposed to be working all afternoon, but the Diamond Jubilee does not come along every day, so I went up to my mother and the Lovely Stepfather, and we watched some of the dear old BBC coverage. I have been so cut off from the world in my deadline fever, that the idea of a royal regatta existed only very faintly on the far edge of my consciousness. But oh, oh the boats. The whole Thames was filled with them, everything from dour old working Yorkshire coal boats (the captain of that was my favourite; ‘Here’s one for the North,’ he said, grinning all over his face) to Edwardian pleasure cruisers. There were proper Naval vessels and narrow boats and lovely Victorian rowing skiffs. There were Olympic rowers and, perhaps the thing that amazed me most of all, Venetian gondoliers.

‘Someone went and got VENETIANS,’ I yelled at my mother.

The Queen looked awfully happy, and the banks were lined with Ordinary Decent Britons, yelling and whooping and giving three cheers.

On paper, Republicanism makes perfect philosophical sense; the hereditary principle is, on the face of it, absurd. But on a day like today, it just feels a little bit snobbish and curmudgeonly. There were crowds of people, having a perfectly lovely time, in the gloomy summer weather, and I defy anyone to shake a reproving finger at that.

At four, vaguely aware that there was something going on on our village green (a very rare thing in Scotland; it was laid out on an English model by some old laird who had been brought up in the south) I wandered down with the Pigeon. And there was the village, dancing. They were doing a mass strip the willow, to much hilarity. Then there was three cheers for Her Majesty, and a rendition of God Save the Queen. It was oddly touching. Balmoral is not away, and half our shops have By Royal Appointment signs above their doors; here on Deeside the Royal Family feel like locals.

I loved the whole thing. The older I get, the more I appreciate a bit of good old British pomp. I even rather love the fact that, in London, it was raining. Sunshine would be far too vulgar and faintly European. We are bred to bad weather. On the radio, some onlookers were being interviewed. ‘Is the weather dampening your spirits?’ asked the presenter. ‘Oh, no,’ they said, and with marvellous non-sequitur, ‘You see, we are from Norfolk.’

Yesterday was my father’s birthday. It was the Derby. He adored the Derby. He always went, looking very smart in his shiny black top hat. I was fired with the excitement of the great race, and it did turn out to be a great race, where a new champion was born, and a nineteen-year-old Irish boy called Joseph O’Conner made history, riding his father’s horse Camelot to victory. No father and son combination has ever won the Derby in its 230 year history. I shouted my head off, and missed my own father so much I could hardly breathe.

In the morning, rather madly, I had told the mare the story of how her famous grandfather won the Derby. She listened politely. I wished, suddenly, violently, that my dad could have been there to see her, in all her aristocratic beauty, with her outrageous bloodlines. I cried for him, astonished at how acute and fresh the sorrow still can be, over a year after his death.

So, all human life has been here, in the last 36 hours. The memory of my dad, the sweetness of the living family, the joy of my horse, the best racing in the world, every kind of boat on the dirty old Thames, the village out in its pomp, the celebration of our own dear Queen. And I did over four thousand words, and am closing in on the end of the book. Not bad, really.

 

Today’s pictures.

The village green celebrating the Jubilee:

 

My lovely Red, bowing her beautiful head:

The Pigeon in her special Jubilee lead:

She really does look rather queenly herself.

The hill, rather blurry today:

What I especially liked about the celebration today is that it was all so tremendously British. I’m not sure exactly why, and I’m not sure exactly why that gives me pleasure, but it does.

It was the best of British, and I wave my own little metaphorical flag.

Pomp and Circumstance

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Imagine you are twenty-six years old. You are taken aside and told that your job has been decided for you. You may have no say in where you live, or what you do from now on. Your daily life will be mapped out in increments, inscribed in intricate official diaries, drawn up by other people. You may not carry money. No one, except for members of your very close family, will ever call you by your name. Your every move will be scrutinised. You must weigh each word before you utter it, lest you carelessly cause a scandal or a constitutional crisis. You will never again be able to ride on a bus or hail a cab or cycle down a city street. You cannot nip down the shops for a packet of fags. Your first question on meeting anyone will be a variant on: 'Where do you come from?'. You will spend an inordinate amount of time with Lord Mayors and other dignitaries. Everyone who ever meets you will be on their best behaviour, which means the likelihood of antic conversation and good jokes are vanishingly small. Nothing you ever do, ever again, may be on a whim.

This is why I love the Queen. I know she has palaces and some nice horses and a few jewels, but I would not wish that constrained life on my most devout enemy. I used to take the easy, fashionable view that the whole lot of them were a bunch of worthless showers; now I am older I think, perhaps it is not quite that simple. Anyway, I salute Her Majesty and all who sail in her.

The awful thing is, that I am now such an old fart, I also rather love the State Opening of Parliament, which happened this morning. I love the ripples of history that run through it. The Yeomen of the Guard must search the basement of the Palace of Westminster, because of Guy Fawkes. It's only four hundred years since a band of plotters tried to blow the place up, who knows when they might try again? I love that the Cap of Maintenance must be delivered, to remind us that once monarchs craved the blessing of the Pope, until Henry VIII got jiggy with it and decided to put an end to all that. I love that the door must be slammed in Black Rod's face, forcing him to knock three times in acknowledgement of the supremacy of the lower House, in a particular reminder of the moment in 1642 when Charles I attempted to have five members of the Commons arrested. I like that we still have a Lord Great Chamberlain, after 900 years, and that he gets to dress in this amount of fabulous frogging:

It's all absurd, really, but it's wonderful at the same time. It is so much more aesthetically pleasing than men in suits in black motorcades.

I missed the beginning, but I turned on the BBC just in time to see the Queen leaving. I was delighted to witness the Imperial Crown, on its own special cushion, and the Sword of State being taken back to the Tower of London, in the Queen Alexandra state coach, accompanied by the Crown Jeweller and the Barge Master. I did not know we had a Barge Master, but I am very reassured to hear it. The barges must be mastered. I wonder if it is a job one could apply for? I quite fancy being Mistress of the Barges.

I caught a happy glimpse of the state coach and two troops of Household Cavalry taking up half of Whitehall, the spanking black horses gleaming in the late spring sun.

I do have a soft spot for a fellow in a really good uniform, so you can imagine how happy all this made me.

(I do hope someone mixes old Queeny a socking great dry martini when she gets home.)

Along with all the circumstance and pomp, I love the slight irreverence with which the British press greets the event. 'Her Maj delivering speech' went one caption in The Sun. Ann Treneman tweeted: 'Am counting tiaras. It's my job. Amazing bling.' The Times reported that the Imperial State Crown 'looks in fine fettle and very sparkly'.

For all the jokes, and we are right to make them (great British sin: taking oneself too seriously), the whole event is a rather stirring spectacle. I know that we are just a small, crowded island in the North Sea; we no longer have much clout in the world. Last week, I read about an official from the State Department in America saying: 'There's nothing special about Britain. You're just the same as the other 190 countries in the world.' It was brutal, and not very mannerly, but not entirely untrue. I don't like jingoism or exceptionalism, although when I am feeling cranky I do think: we have SHAKESPEARE, so everyone else can just bugger off. But for all our reduced role on the global stage, boy, can we do ceremony. It's not the cure for any of the world's ills, but it's not nothing.

 

(Photographs by Allen Warren; Number 10 Flickr feed; The Telegraph; Dan Kitwood; the EPA; Andy Rain.)