On the road.

An early start for the winding drive to Tebay. I take the long way round, since I can’t do motorways during the week. It takes hours, but I get to see enchanting, unexpected parts of England.

The budget zooms in and out of my consciousness. It’s good, it’s bad; it helps, it doesn’t. The economists argue as I drive past the folded, faded hills of Cumbria with their pretty dusting of white.

I think of my horse, patiently waiting for me, in her snowy field.

I miss, suddenly, violently, my two old ladies. They came with me so many times to Tebay, and were so beloved here, and as I walk down the calm corridor to my room, I see two black ghosts running ahead of me, with all their goodness and eagerness and sweetness. They were such generous, friendly, elegant dogs. I suppose they shall always leave a stinging gap in my heart.

I think of my dad too. He is with me a lot, at the moment.

I think that even though I yearn for home like a pain in my chest, I shall have to turn round almost at once and come back. I wish I were a better traveller. Someone got properly impatient with me about even speaking of such an insignificant journey, but I can’t help it, I find two legs of 260 miles on crowded roads really enervating.

So I suppose I’m a bit tired and doleful today, what with one thing and another. It will pass. I shall see the dear faces of home tomorrow morning; I shall see the glorious hills. I miss the hills almost as much as I miss the creatures, when I am away. The slings and arrows shall be forgotten. I shall take my iron tonic and butch up.

Of brave racing men.

One of the things I love about Twitter and Facebook is that they are not just about comical kittens and small puppies doing amusing things. They take you to places you might not necessarily go. So it was that I found myself, first thing this morning, reading an article in the Irish Independent, which was so good that I read it twice. If it had not been retweeted by a kind person on my timeline, I should never have found it. I am very glad I did.

It tells the story of the amateur rider John Thomas McNamara, who lies in Frenchay Hospital in Bristol after a critical fall at Cheltenham. It’s an astonishingly good piece. It’s the kind of article which makes me say: if you read only one thing on the internet today, make it this.

The writer in me sits back in awe and wonder, because to produce journalism this fine is a properly difficult thing to do. A lot of journalism can be efficient and effective, but is written by people who have no love for words. They don’t give a bugger about the language of Shakespeare and Milton; they just want to tell the story.

John O’Brien, not a writer I know, has a beautiful feeling for the rhythms of language, for the swoops and swings of it, for its dying falls. But he is clinical too. There is not a word wasted; each adjective is perfectly chosen. He paints a vivid picture of a world that many people don’t see; he takes you into the heart of the weighing room, and behind the white hospital door.

It is moving, but never mawkish. It pays a good tribute to a good man.

The writer in me loves it, because it is rare to read prose of that quality in the newspapers. Even some of the most garlanded columnists often descend into platitude and pablum; a disturbing number paddle in the shallow waters of received wisdom. Some are blatantly hypocritical and some seem devoted to the réchauffé. (And yet, says the cross, sceptical part of my brain, they still get paid the stupid money.) So it’s lovely to be reminded that there are still journalists out there who are so shiningly good at their craft.

But the real reason this piece made me sit up straight at seven-thirty in the morning, and catch my breath, and feel my heart flip in my chest, is much more personal.

Not so very long from now, it will have been two years since my father died. It’s a long time, and at the same time it’s nothing at all. He is close by me every day at the moment. I don’t know whether that is an anniversary thing, or just a coincidence. Perhaps it’s a Cheltenham thing. Last Wednesday, I ran into a very old friend outside the Guinness tent, whom I had not seen for years. He knew and loved my father well. As I was discussing my ridiculous accumulators and whether Dynaste would win the Jewson, the friend laughed fondly and said: ‘The apple really does not fall far from the tree.’ It was the best compliment anyone could have given me.

Whatever the reason, the old gentleman is at the front of all my waking thoughts, just now.

When the talented John O’Brien writes about the brave and beloved J.T. McNamara, a horseman who rides racing horses for love rather than money, he might, in some ways, be writing about a Corinthian from over fifty years ago. My dad was another of those flinty fellows whose gutsiness got him into trouble, in the end. He had ears ripped half off, ankles smashed, and his shoulders constantly dislocated. They almost literally fell out of their sockets in a hard finish, until he had them sewn into place, leaving wide, shiny, scarlet scars which I remember vividly from my childhood. (The eminent surgeon, Bill Tucker, once left a Saturday night dinner party to reset one of Dad’s shoulders.) But all that was nothing compared to the two broken backs and necks.

I remember learning of this when I was quite a small child. It was a bit of a legend in our house, the time Dad broke his back and his neck for the second time. I remember not quite understanding, because I thought that was the kind of thing that killed you stone dead.

The doctors sat on his bed, just like they did in this good article, and said he must never ride again, never so much as sit on a dozy old hack in a slow walk. If his poor battered body hit the ground once more, they said, he would be in a wheelchair for life, or under the sod. Dad nodded and pretended to listen, and one year later, against all orders, lined up in the Grand National. Years later, when I asked him what happened, he said, dry as a bone: ‘Fell off at the third.’

He walked away from that fall and rode out every day into his advanced age. I think, now, how lucky he was, how different everything could have been. I hope passionately that J.T. has such a lucky end, and will be able to tell his own young children the same kind of stories our father told us.

As I was writing this, the wireless was chattering in the background. There was a fascinating discussion on religion and morality going on, to which I could not pay proper attention, because I was typing fast of gallant racing gents. But one sentence suddenly struck my ear. It went something like: ‘Be ready to give an answer to anyone who asks of the hope that you have.’ I think it was St Peter who said this. My theology is thin, but it’s a question I like.

I have an answer for the hope that I have, and I have a lot of hope. I think pretty much most humans are pretty good. I think almost everyone wants to love well and be loved in return. I think ordinary people do extraordinary things, day after day, without any of them making headline news or winning prizes. I think the human heart is rather a wonderful thing, both literally and metaphorically.

You can say it’s nuts, riding fast horses over high fences. You can say it is unnecessary, in this slick, computer age. You can say it’s a risk too far. But it rather gives me hope, that there are still dauntless jockeys who do exactly that, on an obscure windy Wednesday at Huntingdon, as well as on the fabled Friday of the Gold Cup.

It gives me hope that those weighing rooms are still places of admiration and affection and brotherhood; that the jockeys all help each other out; that they are so damn sporting. They get paid a pittance, in terms of professional sport, and an ambulance follows ten yards behind them every time they go out to do their job. There is a true toughness and stoicism in that which I really like. There is authenticity, and lack of flash. There is proper old-school grit.

 

A couple of ancient, grainy pictures of my old parent, much missed, much remembered:

Here on the left, over fences:

Gritted teeth over hurdles:

Rather Tailor and Cutter, in his trusty old flat cap:

And here is the link to the brilliant article, about a fine man I have never met in my life, but who remains in my thoughts too:

http://www.independent.ie/sport/horse-racing/everybody-hurts-for-true-friend-29135214.html

Update. Or, too tired to blog.

It was a glorious sunny day in the south, but I get atrocious reports of blizzards and ice at home, and now feel rather gloomy about bashing through the weather to my poor old home. Still, still, a dose of the perspective police and a couple of tins of ice-cold Guinness will do the trick, and I shall rise tomorrow filled with purpose.

Back on the road on Wednesday, and shall go very slowly in my shiny and restored little Audi, with its trusty four-wheel drive, which is promised, by the kind people at the garage, to work by then. Thank goodness for Hurricane Fly and Quevega, who between their dear, battling hearts, shall pay for my ridiculously expensive new brake pads.

According to my mother and The Horse Talker, this is the only person on the compound who is cheerful, despite his rather serious face in this shot:

Whilst this normally sweet and biddable ladyship is utterly fed up with the weather and has given in to bouts of grumpiness:

And everyone is covered in mud, and furry white coats are a thing of distant memory:

Sunday. Sunshine, food, family, and a little Cheltenham recap.

After all that, it was rather a lovely Sunday.

There was walking, with dogs and children, in suddenly clement weather. There was a great deal of cooking. (I made the special little risotto cakes coated with polenta and fried in olive oil, which go down very well with the small people.) I did my HorseBack work, which soothed my frayed nerves.

I missed my mare so badly in the late morning it was like a blow at my heart. It is idiotic to miss a horse, really. At one point I thought: I don’t know how horse people ever go on holiday, ever.

Meanwhile, she herself is lounging about in her field, immaculately looked after by The Horse Talker, supplied with the highest quality Scottish hay that money can buy, probably hardly even knowing I am not there.

But I miss her lovely scent, I miss her dear face, I miss the heavy still feeling I get when she rests her head on my shoulder and goes to sleep. I miss working with her and being amazed when she does something brilliantly clever. I miss leaning over the fence and discussing with the HT every jot and tittle and detail of our small herd. (We are absurdly partisan, and very much like revisiting the subject of how perfect they are in every particular: manners, cleverness, funniness, kindness, outrageous beauty.)

The youngest cousins have just heard Five Years by David Bowie for the very first time. A seminal moment obviously for their mother and me, for whom it was the soundtrack of our formative years. They did a little dance and seemed to like it very much.

I am going to make some prawn and noodle soup with coriander and mint and chillies and drink some Guinness in honour of St Patrick (any excuse) and try not to panic at the thought of being away from my desk, with its hilltops of work waiting for me.
 
A few quick pictures from the archive:

The girlfriends, hanging out, having a bit of a chat:



The sweet face of Red the Mare:



The morning Here You Are faces that I miss:



Mr Stanley is apparently being wonderfully good and sweet, and is having a lovely time with his most excellent dog-sitter, and is visiting The Mother and the dear Stepfather and spreading joy in that house:



Must admit, I do miss that gaze, too:



And the lovely old hill:



But I do get the Smallest Cousin showing me her tremendous dance moves:



And I had the keen pleasure of Cheltenham with the Older Brother:









And the mornings I spent absurdly photographing my racing outfits for the approval of my Facebook posse still make me smile:



Out there in the internets, there are a lot of people asking: what is your favourite Festival moment? Too many to choose, is probably my answer.

The Hurricane flying high again, Sprinter Sacre laughing at them all in the sun, the brave little Bobs Worth sticking his head out all the way to the finish: all go into my Hall of Fame.
But perhaps, if I really had to choose, it was the mighty mare Quevega, who clipped heels round the back, and practically fell on her lovely nose, and still picked herself up, and even when all was lost, and she was ten or twelve lengths off the pace, switched her unstoppable engine into turbo, and roared past the field, storming up the hill into her rightful place in history.

I won’t forget that in a hurry. It’s the mares, again. Never, ever bet against the good heart of a brave mare, and she is one of the bravest I ever saw.

Sharing with the group. Or, in which things do not go entirely to plan.

The odd thing is that all day long I have been thinking: must write the blog. This is odd because it was my travelling day, and it was packed with incident and set-back, and if there ever was an excuse for no blog this was it. But the curious thing that is my mind insisted, endlessly, that the Dear Readers must know.

I got up at 5.30am, all geared for the drive north. I was going home, to my red mare, to my dear dog, to my family in the north, to my desk. I have mountains of work to do. I was intensely sad to leave the Beloved Cousins, but I was ready to be home. I was all focused on that.

At just before seven, in the hard rain, I was stranded, with wailing brakes and a strong smell of burning, at the junction with the M5. The AA had to be called. A very grumpy man arrived, as I was miserably drinking strong coffee and trying to concentrate on the Racing Post. Nothing to be done; tow to garage best thing; possibility of fixing car in next 48 hours nil. In the end, I decided to return to the Beloved Cousins, and get the car taken to the garage nearest them.

A tow-truck was sent for. As I waited for it, I freely admit, I had a little wail. Then the Perspective Police tore in and did a raid. I thought of the good jockey, JT McNamara, who lies still in a hospital bed with two fractured vertebrae, critical but stable. I thought of Barry Geraghty’s white face after he won the Gold Cup, the greatest blue riband in all of jump racing. There was no flush of delight, no blaze of triumph. He said something like: it’s very hard to be happy today. You see, in that weighing room, they are a band of brothers. It does not matter if you are the champ, or if you are a part-time amateur, or if you are the youngest, rawest claimer.

They all go out, onto that green turf, and literally risk their necks, and that is what ties them together, as tight as the bonds of family or blood. They all love JT McNamara. One jockey said of him: you could drive from one end of Ireland to the other and try to find one person who had one bad word to say of him and you would fail.

That was when I thought: it’s just a broken-down car.

As if to confirm this, the man driving the tow-truck was not only one of the nicest and most articulate men I’ve ever met, but he spent ten years in the Royal Engineers. The moment I discovered this, I grew intensely interested and engaged. I told him of my work with HorseBack; I said I now knew things I did not before, of what people on the front line see and do. In turn, he told me of his work in Kosovo. He told me of his first tour in Afghanistan. He told me, diffidently, of the time in the Balkans when he was sent to excavate mass graves. He told me, quietly, of what it was like to remove body parts in black plastic bags.

I laughed, a little ragged. I said, you know that really does make me understand I can’t get too bent out of shape over a sodding brake pad.

Sure, I did not get home. My schedule has gone to hell. But I came back to my family in the south, to a delightful warm welcoming house, with smiling children in it. I made chicken risotto and drank the good claret, and even watching the racing from Uttoxeter. It was the Midlands Grand National. My darling old father trained the winner of that race, in 1974, a tough, bonny fella called Fighting Chance, who stormed over those long four miles when I was seven years old. I remember him well; I loved him well; I remember the wild joy when he won.

This year, almost forty years later, I backed Big Occasion, who cruised into the lead under his young amateur rider, and cantered through the mud to a fine victory.

Everyone in Scotland is going to look after my animals. I shall get my work done. I have my computer and my fingers and the good old internet. Close relations and generous people I have never met in my life sent sweet messages via the Facebook and the Twitter, when they heard of the buggered car. People to whom I had never been formally introduced sent offers of help and messages of sympathy. Alongside all that perspective was a great fat dose of Kindness of Strangers.

I hate it when things do not work and plans fail and schedules collapse. I like to think I am marvellously agile and good at extemporising, but in fact, I love a good Plan. The plan has gone to hell, but it’s really not that bad. The mare, the dog and the pony shall survive well without me, surrounded as they are by love and care. It’s just a few days.

And that was what I had to tell you. No idea why it was so imperative that I should, but there it is. Sometimes I do not examine too closely the absolute demands of my own odd little psyche. It’s like the times I posted pictures of my Cheltenham hat on the Facebook. No real excuse for that either. It seems, for no plausible reason, that there is a group, and I must share with it.

And that, literally and metaphorically, is all she wrote.

Friday

On my way back north first thing tomorrow. It’s been a week of peaks and troughs, joys and sorrows. The right horse, in the end, won the Gold Cup. There were no hard luck stories or unlikely occurrences. The most talented, the most brave, the most dogged ran up that hard hill, and made throats sore with cheering. He deserved all of the cheers. Bobs Worth is a small-ish, ordinary-looking horse. He does not have the preen and flash of Kauto Star or Sprinter Sacre. But he has a heart as big as a house, and he does not know how to give in.

I love Silviniaco Conti too, who fell, but will be back to fight another day. But I was really glad, in the end, that the little Bobs Worth did it, in such dauntless fashion.

Full report over the next few days. In the meantime, I am heart-sore to be leaving the cousins, but there will be a moment, half-way up the motorway, when I suddenly realise that I shall soon see this person again, and the very notion shall lend me wings:

Interestingly, although I could not love Mr Stanley the Dog or Myfanwy the Pony more, this is the one I miss so much it sometimes makes me catch my breath. It’s not that I love her the most; but I do miss her the most.

Cheltenham, Day Three.

Very tired. All my beloveds got beat today, yet there was some glory in the losses. First Lieutenant and Hunt Ball ran doggedly on up the hill in defeat, and made the frame, and they reminded me that it is not all about the winning, but the taking part. The first two days were about untrammelled victories: Hurricane Fly, Quevega and Sprinter Sacre, flying home, laughing at lesser mortals. I had so many doubles and trebles with them in that I was miles up on the meeting, so I could afford to bet for love today, and did not mind the setbacks.

There was a lot of joy and laughter, as unfancied long-shots came roaring home, and the mighty stables did not have it all their own way. It’s always lovely to see the less sung yards have their moment in the sun, when it’s not all Henderson and Nicholls. There was also some keen delight in watching two old veterans, Celestial Halo and Tartak, run huge races at wild prices.

There was a shadow though, the first there has been over this morning’s sunlit Prestbury Park. Two jockeys were taken to hospital with critical injuries, and one lovely chaser was put down on the track. Racing is a hard sport. I grew up in it, and know the peaks of triumph, and the troughs of despair. I remember many hushed hospital visits to my dad, and there was a time before I was born when he was told, gravely, by men in white coats, that he must never sit on a horse again. That was after he broke his back and his neck for the second time. A year later, he ignored orders, and rode in the Grand National. He rode out every day for years afterwards. I remember too his tears for horses lost, a visceral grief that leaves a stamp on the heart.

I struggle with this sometimes, as I turn on the racing. But then I remember the nature of risk. All life is risk. Humans and equines both cannot be wrapped in cotton wool. A horse can die in its box, if it lies down at an awkward angle, and cannot get up again. (It’s called being cast.) It can die in the benign surroundings of a green field, just from cantering the wrong way. A human can die looking the wrong way, crossing the street.

So, it was a more mixed day. But I saw fond old friends, and gazed over the natural beauty of that lovely amphitheatre that is Cheltenham, and I spent the day with the dear Older Brother. I got to see some of the horses I love the most up close, in all their easy, athletic, thoroughbred fineness. I watched the people who work with them, day in and day out, and saw, in every touch of the hand, and tilt of the head, and softening of the eye, the fondness they hold for their brave equine charges. Some people think racing is too flinty and ruthless, but if they could see the lads and the trainers and the jockeys, who really do wear their hearts on their sleeves, I think they might reconsider.

 

A couple of quick pictures, from the pre-parade ring and the paddock:

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.

Cheltenham update. Or, sheer joy. Or, the wonderful, glorious luck of the Irish.

 

Would love to tell you the whole story of the day, but I’ve never been so tired in my life. However, just have enough life in my fingers to type the love and delight I felt when my two best beloveds, Hurricane Fly and Quevega, stormed up the hill, defying all statistics.

On paper, in particular, the darling old Hurricane should not have won. No horse has regained the Champion Hurdle for forty years, and, aside from that dark stat, he is really considered too old, at nine, to do the business. But the lucky thing is that no one told that brave fella that everything was against him. He stuck his neck out and lengthened his stride and left brilliant horses in his wake. I backed him in cash, on the course, and I had him in a huge all for love double with the mighty mare, Quevega, and the brilliant Ruby Walsh guided them both home.

I am not ashamed to say that I burst into wild tears of joy. After Quevega, I actually HUGGED a completely strange young man in the Jockey Club stand.

The whole course erupted with joy both times. That’s the difference between being there and watching it on the television. As you stand, in the wonderful roiling cauldron that is Prestbury Park, you hear thousands of people calling RUBY RUBY RUBY, with one joyful voice. You also see the glorious wide smile of that wonderful jockey, and see the pricked ears and gentle preening of the beautiful, clever, good thoroughbreds that he rides.

I’m glad I won money, of course I am. But much more than that, I shall never forget the day I saw two mighty Irish champions smash records and make history. It really was a thing of utmost beauty. Even thinking of it now brings tears to my eyes.

And now, I’m going to have a restorative pint of Guinness and switch on the recording, so I can see on the screen those wonderful horses refuse to be denied.

Cheltenham. There really is nothing like it, in the whole wide world. Best five hundred and fifty miles I ever drove.

Cheltenham, Monkerhostin, Hurricane Fly and absurd excitement.

I am writing this at a million miles an hour at just after six. I’ve been awake for an hour, so excited about Cheltenham I cannot sleep.

I had slightly hoped I would wake early, and then I could go through all the form one more time, and invent the most cunning accumulator of all time, and make my old dad proud. Instead, I did some writing for HorseBack, because today is real red letter day and I had to mark it.

It’s possibly slightly more red letter-ish for me than for them, because it locks into my great passion as I charge off to the races. Today, I am going to meet Monkerhostin.

There is no time now to tell you how or why or all the delightful details. Monkerhostin was a really good racehorse, tough, genuine and talented. In his retirement, he is doing something even more remarkable than storming up the Cheltenham hill. He now lives with Sergeant Major George Beilby, and helps the Royal Marine through the struggles of post-Afghanistan life.

Anyway, the sergeant major is going to do some work with HorseBack, to highlight how horses can play such an extraordinary role in the path to recovery, and so, in my official capacity as Writer-in-Residence, I am going to meet him today and his glorious horse. I am beside myself. Monkerhostin is everything I love about the jumps. This is what his previous owner said about him: ‘He never gave up. Sometimes watching him down the back straight you thought he had no chance, but he never saw it like that. He wasn't always good enough but he always gave it everything he could.’

Those are the ones that stick in the memory, and make the heart lift.

So if you are at Cheltenham today, look out for Monkerhostin in the parade at 12.15pm. If the people at Channel 4 can get their act together, they might even show it on the television. And think of me, vibrating with excitement and trying vainly to act normally, when I get upsides these two remarkable people.

I can’t revise all the form now, so I’m just sticking with my beloveds. The Irish in me is strong this morning, and I’m staying true to my two darlings from over the sea, Quevega and Hurricane Fly. I’ve put them in a treble with My Tent or Yours as my charity bet for HorseBack. Channel 4 does charity bets, so I’m going to do one too. It does feel a bit cheesy, just choosing three favourites, and possibly unwise, since the favourite statistics at Cheltenham are not great. But they are the ones I love today and that’s all she wrote.

I really, really want Hurricane Fly to win, with every beat of my ridiculous heart, because I love him and because no one has regained the Champion Hurdle for forty years . But there is a reason for that, and I do think Zarkandar will run a huge race. Even when he was a baby, a raw four-year-old who knew nothing, he was amazingly tough. He’s a fighter, and he won’t go down without a tussle.

After all that, Rock on Ruby will probably beat both of them. I’d like to see Countrywide Flame run his race. He’s another of whom I am enduringly fond, although he’s probably not quite good enough to make the frame in this.

But really, today is all about a former champ, the lovely Monkerhostin, and his Royal Marine. The parade, at 12.15. Tell all your friends.

 
Only one picture today, of the special Cheltenham hat. I shall not be bringing the horse, you will be amazed to hear:



Oh, and to those of you going and those of you watching and those of you, like me, shouting yourselves hoarse, have a glorious day and a lot of good Guinness, and perhaps a winner or two.
 
PS. This is almost certainly atrociously written and riddled with howlers. Been up since five so brain already a bit addled. Forgive me.

Cheltenham madness.

For some reason, I had it in my head that I was going to give you a detailed breakdown of the whole Cheltenham betting week. It’s because one or two of the Dear Readers and the kind Facebook friends had asked for tips, and of course I generally do exactly what the readers ask. (Except when it is a request to stop with the horse stuff.)

I have been thinking about Cheltenham since October. Every time a good horse runs in a good race I get out my notebook, to file the information away for exactly this week. My William Hill account is packed with unbelievably canny ante-post gambles. I was quite overcome by my own cleverness.

But now of course the glorious moment is about to dawn, and I have no certainties left. All the horses are coming out at the declaration stage: some won’t go on the ground, some have scoped badly, some just aren’t quite at that crest and peak that Cheltenham demands. This means that some of the races are changing shape, and becoming a little clearer perhaps, although most of the big handicaps are still as murky as ever, as the enormous fields still wait to be culled, and the final weights decided.

Everything and anything could happen. Things which felt certain yesterday seem in flux now.

So, after all that, I’m not going to give you any tips. Cheltenham is the most difficult betting feat of the year, harder than Ascot even, and if I walk away with the clothes on my back I’ll be happy. Also, this year, I have a lot of loves running about. There is Overturn, of course, but there is also Midnight Chase, whom I adore, and Hunt Ball, who makes my heart beat in my chest. I’ll almost certainly have entirely sentimental bets on them. There is Dynaste, of whom I am so fond I backed him three months ago to win any race at the festival, and who actually is now looking like a really good thing.

My two Irish beloveds, Quevega and Hurricane Fly, although hot favourites, could both easily get turned over. They are statistically all wrong in the races they are contesting, and Quevega has not even been on a racecourse this season. But they both have that something special that really good horses have, that little sprinkle of magic, and they are in a magician’s hands, too. Willie Mullins can defy dry stats like no man on earth.

The funny thing is that Hurricane Fly, who is one of the highest rated horses in training, is starting to feel almost like an underdog, as the statisticians stack up the odds against him. He’s the wrong age, and they hardly ever regain such a Cheltenham crown. And then, say the knockers, what’s he really beaten this season, apart from the same bunch of horses, over and over.

I can’t stand the knockers. I’ll always back a horse against them. I’m betting that the mighty Hurricane will blow again, even though he’s all wrong on paper. I think the Fly will fly, but mostly because I really want him to. So it will be a small bet but a huge shout. It will be a holler of pure love.

What do I think of the week as a whole? I think it’s very important to remember that favourites have a lower record than usual at Cheltenham, for obvious reasons. (Someone has worked out the strike-rate is around 26% on average.) I think that sure things are less sure in that boiling cauldron than in any other place. I think if you want real fun, find a lively outsider that you admire and have a couple of quid on that. I shall be doing this with Midnight Chase, even though the stats are against him, too.

I think the ground will make a big difference, and may scupper my lovely Overturn, so don’t back anything which has not run well on soft. It also means stamina will really play its part this year. And, in my own nutty mind, I’ll be looking at the tough horses, because it’s going to be bitter cold, with a strong wind. The real, doughty, genuine horses are going to be needed for that, not the temperamental, delicate types. (I slightly put Une Artiste in this category, although she may prove me wrong.)

I think the hot favourites who are most likely to oblige are Quevega, Sprinter Sacre, Pont Alexandre and My Tent or Yours, and that might not be a bad little fourfold, even if it is shockingly obvious, and you will not be able to brag about it, since a child of six could work it out.

Everyone wants a bet of the meeting, and a banker of the meeting. The banker is obviously Sprinter Sacre but he is too short for any but the most crocodile-skinned, flint-eyed punters, so I would split my certainties between Pont Alexandre for Ireland and Dynaste for England. My bet of the meeting may easily be Salsify, on whom I grow sweeter and sweeter. He’s around 11-4, which is a perfectly respectable sort of price. He ran really well last time out, is a strong, genuine sort of horse, and has won at the festival before. I’m also quite keen on Reve de Sivola in the World Hurdle, despite my love for Oscar Whisky, and I’ve got a little feeling for African Gold for the Albert Bartlett.

As for the Gold Cup itself, I can make perfectly plausible cases for and against Bobs Worth, Long Run, Silviniaco Conti and Sir Des Champs. I’ve put myself on and off all of them in turn, starting with the honest, talented, unfussy Bobs Worth, right through the list. My pin is currently hovering over Silviniaco, for his sheer wonderful efficiency. I’m not sure I ever saw a horse who was so clinical at his fences, and I love him for it.

But what I’ve suddenly realised is that I don’t know what is going to happen, and none of it really matters. I’ll have a few idiotic accumulators, in the spirit of my old dad, and I’ll take a sensible deep breath and sit some of the more complicated handicaps out, and I’ll probably put the house on one or two of the obvious trebles. For a happy, amateurish punter like me, it really is not a competition. The winning is watching all those glorious creatures, doing what they were bred to do. Honestly, at this stage, I’m such a hippy I’d say that being alive is enough.

Love and trees, my darlings, and good, brave horses who fly through the air.

And now I really am going to stop and have some Guinness before I die a slow Death by Timeform.

No time or energy for pictures today. Just this girl, who is the real beat of my heart:

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

Mothering Sunday

Happy day to all the great mothers. I know quite a lot of them. I never cease to look at them with awe and wonder.

Happy Mother’s Day to my own dear mum, seen here looking amazingly glamorous at an unknown racecourse, with The Sister and The Younger Brother, some time in the early seventies:

Sunday

An incredibly sweet weekend with a whole house of relations. There were two of the cousins I really had not seen properly since they were small girls, running around in Italy, brown from the sun. Now they are enchanting and funny and poised young women, filled with life and humour and individuality. It was very touching to see them.

A lot of cooking, a lot of talking, a bit of walking, some singing, the feeding of chickens, some trying on of the Cheltenham outfits. It is going to be three degrees with twenty-mile-an-hour winds gusting in over Cleeve Hill, so I may have to sacrifice chic for comfort. I’m never that chic anyway, so it’s not the end of the world. I sent off to John Lewis for extra thermals and they arrived within 12 hours. That company is a true miracle.

This just arrived. It seems my friend The Pony Whisperer has been giving Stanley the Dog a very special Sunday indeed. I really don’t think he is missing me at all:

A really quite absurdly random list

Was just going to do some more random pictures for you when I came across this on the internet.

Of course I am so insanely competitive that if one person puts up a Things I Like list, I have to do one too, even though it is a stupidly busy day and I do not really have time for distractions.

(Talking of distractions: the Five-Year-Old has just come up beside me and said, in her most charming voice: ‘Oh, I like watching you write.’

She goes quiet for a bit. Then she says: ‘Have you tried potato chips before? But really, have you?’

She is the mistress of the non-sequitur.)

Here are the THINGS I LIKE:

Authenticity.

Risotto.

People who are good at things.

The semi-colon.

Love and trees.

Mares. Especially slightly duchessy mares who can do Spanish Riding School of Vienna tricks in the middle of a muddy field just for the hell of it.

Working dogs, of all stripes.

Black dogs.

Mongrel dogs.

Blue hills.

Church bells.

White china.

Irony.

The glorious anticipation in the days running up to Cheltenham, when each morning one wakes like a child counting down to Christmas.

Enthusiasm.

Kindness.

Did I say trees?

Racehorses. And pretty much the thoroughbred in general.

Typing fast.

Reading books. Not all books, obviously. Good, true books, where the writer does not show off too much.

Things that smell nice in the bath.

Chicken soup.

Leonard Cohen.

Friends who make me laugh so much I don’t know what my name is.

The English language.

Those really bright green olives the size of walnuts.

Rosemary.

People who say interesting things.

Radio 4.

Black and white photographs.

Scotland.

Robins.

Woods.

Moss.

Olive oil.

American politics. All politics really, but the Americans have the most dramatic and interesting and sometimes incomprehensible kind.

The colour green.

Shakespeare.

A very dry martini with three olives.

Suede.

A really good font.

Those very delicate engraved glasses that the Edwardians used to drink out of.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.

Braque.

The National Portrait Gallery.

The Repeal of the Corn Laws.

Blue sea.

Eggs for breakfast.

Moleskine notebooks.

F Scott Fitzgerald.

Wit.

Mozart.

Good manners.

Hoar frost.

The smell of woodsmoke.

The memory of summers on the coast of Connemara.

Lists.

And on and on it goes. I’m not even half finished. (Did not mention italics, sand, Bach or Mrs Woolf and Mrs Parker. Or the scent of warm asphalt after rain, a really good hotel bar, Persuasion, and the paintings of Rothko. Or Chinese food, boat rides, Scots pines, red patent leather handbags and lichen.) How anyone can get it down to a list of 14 I shall never know.

 

Now for your random archive pictures:

We haven’t had a darling old Duchess for ages. This was when she was old and her heart was going, but it is a rare picture of her smiling. She normally affected the most de haut en bas gaze:

Haven’t had Dad for a bit either. Here he is in his favourite Dave Dick coat. I don’t really know why it was called the Dave Dick coat, except for the fact that Dave Dick had one and liked it. Also, top flat cap action in its field, you must admit:

My God, what a pair they were:

Resolutions not kept

As always, the days gallop away from me like a recalcitrant brumby. How do people keep control of the hours? Sometimes I swear I can actually hear the whoosh of time as it flies past my ear.

No lovely little bulletins on the wing, after all that. No swift aperçus, or witty asides.

I could, I suppose, tell you some of my Cheltenham thinking, that I woke this morning convinced that a treble including My Tent or Yours, Pont Alexandre, and Sprinter Sacre was the banker bet of the festival. Except I shall have changed my mind about that by tomorrow, if precedent is anything to go by. (I was slightly floored by meeting a gent today who backed My Tent or Yours at 20-1 ante-post, whilst the best price I can find is now 6-4.)

Instead, here is an entirely random collection of pictures. I was going through the archive for my HorseBack work, and I found this little collection, of sunnier days, before the horses grew their winter fur, when there still was The Pigeon, in the world. The world really is a poorer place without her in it. It still has many joys, and things to look forward to; I still wake at dawn counting off the days till Cheltenham like a child looking forward to Christmas. There is still a great deal of loving and being loved and good jokes and good food and good friendship. But even now, there is a gap, where the dear old Pidge once was.

Not at all sure how I got onto that. Was really just going to say Here are some pictures for you. Anyway, here are some pictures for you: