An afternoon off. Or, York Glory.

Even though I am running up to deadline and my shoulders are around my ears and there are not enough hours in the day, today I am taking the afternoon off. I have written 1060 words, and done some editing, and now my desk is cleared, and I am going to watch the racing at York. Because it is Australia Day.

Australia is a mighty chestnut, as red as my red mare, but twenty times as fast. He has a sprinkle of stardust about him, and he’s coming back from a nice summer rest to, I hope, delight me again with his power and speed and brilliance.

There is also a horse running today who lives in my heart: the charming, compact grey that is Kingston Hill. I fell in love with him last season not because he is so talented, but because he is so nice. It’s an odd thing to say about a top-flight racehorse, but it is true. His good character shines out of him like a sudden shaft of sunshine on a cloudy day. Even when he was a baby, he took the hurly burly of victory with a touching equanimity, a lovely matter-of-fact getting on with it attitude. I suspect he is a stoic. I hope he gets his moment of glory this afternoon.

I’m going to go and sit with my mother, and we shall watch the dazzling equine beauties soar over the Knavesmire, one of the loveliest tracks in Britain. The Yorkshire crowd is famously one of the greatest in the world, warm and enthusiastic and knowledgeable. And the Ebor meeting always gathers a feast and festival of thoroughbred talent. I adore it.

As I watch, I shall think of my sweet girl, bred to win the Oaks, her pedigree packed with storied names, and how she trundled round at the back in her racing days. I think she just never saw the point of it. This morning, she was going so lightly that I offered her a gallop. She thought for a moment of putting her sprinting shoes on. I watched her ears flicker, and felt the mighty engine start to rev up. ‘Come on,’ I said, ‘you can go.’ And then the dowager duchess reasserted herself, and she decided on a nice stately canter instead, bouncing gently over the emerald grass, complete within herself, not needing to prove anything to anyone. At York, her fleeter cousins will be hitting top speeds of forty miles an hour, every sinew stretched, every muscle bunched, every ancestral voice reminding them of their will to win. And my slow old girl will be dreaming happily in her field.

I feel there is almost some kind of parable in that, but I’m not sure what it is. It makes me smile, that is all.

The sun shines on the Knavesmire

It’s YORK.

I am beside myself with excitement. I get up early and race around like a sprinter getting all my work done so that I may now sit and watch the racing. The Ebor meeting is one of my favourites of the year. I adore the mighty green sweep of the Knavesmire. And, as Sir Henry Cecil and Tom Queally said last year, when I was there to watch Frankel write another glorious page in racing history, there is nothing like the Yorkshire crowd.

Today, two of my favourite horses go up against each other. I feel almost disloyal having to pick between Toronado and Al Kazeem. Even though most of the time I attempt to resist magical thinking, the lunatic part of my brain is convinced that if I bet against one of my old faithfuls, they will know. Of course, if I were a sensible person, I would not have a bet, and just watch for pleasure. But I am too much of my father’s daughter for that to be possible. Mr William Hill and I shall be on most intimate terms in the next few days.

In the end, I stick with Al Kazeem. I love his toughness and his talent. I love that he came back from injury and has been imperious ever since. I love that he gallops and fights and sticks out his brave neck. I love that his latest form figures read a perfect 1111.

What will now happen is that Hillstar will turn out to be the great improver and thrash both of them.

However the magnificent contest plays out, it will be one of the great races of the summer and I feel lucky to be able to watch it. It is going to be a perfect afternoon.

 

Some quick pictures for you, of HorseBack and my herd and a flower or two and Edward the Puppy and Stan the Man:

o