Sergeant on parade

It's good to get away. I don't really like leaving home, but I must say that I do today feel better for having had a 48-hour holiday, Emma and I having visited my father in Devon over the weekend. Last week was so cold, and then so wet, but fortunately the weather was rather pleasant in Devon while we were there, which certainly was a boon and which made it easier to relax: if I'm away from home and the weather is bad, I worry whether that is causing any problems in my absence. Devon is such an unspoilt part of the country, and my father lives in one of the many really quiet areas in the county, that it's a shame to go there and find that the weather makes one unwilling to go outdoors. No such worries this time fortunately, which was particularly fortunate for Stan, because he had a ball bounding around the fields.

One particularly happy excursion was to Sara and Duncan Kittow's Plainsfield Farm, home of our former inmate Sergeant Small (pictured here with Sara). He used to be well named as regards his size as well as his pedigree (international music connoisseurs will appreciate a son of Dr Devious being called Sergeant Small) but that first aspect no longer applies, because he's a good-sized horse now that's he's had another couple of years to grow, being now aged five. He's really fallen on his feet at Plainsfield, and he and Kate, their elder daughter, have made a very good combination at young-riders' events around the country. He always was a very happy little horse, but now he really exudes contentment, and it was great to catch up with him, as well as with his owners and rider.

On our drive back - a journey enhanced by the audio book 'Set In Darkness' by Ian Rankin - we saw another graduate of the academy, although in this case a far more recent, if more mature too, student: we called in to see Jack Dawson in his new home, where he'd arrived the previous day. As you can see frm the picture on the right, he too looks set up for life so, having recently received communication out of the blue from the owner of Lake Wobegone, a little Inchinor gelding bred, like Sergeant Small, by Golden Vale Stud and whom I re-homed to the polo club ten years ago, to telling me that he's alive and well, I've found the past month a very pleasing one from the point of view of keeping in touch with our former pupils.

We might have headed to Devon on Friday evening via Lingfield (although as I heard on the radio that the M25 was blocked south of the Dartford Bridge, with a resultant 20-mile queue, it is possible/likely that it would have been via a long journey which tried, but failed, to include Lingfield), but that plan was aborted because the track remained 'good to firm, firm in places', and past experience suggested that running Lady Suffragette under those conditions wouldn't be sensible. It's rather ironic, therefore, that I'm now keeping a weather eye out for conditions at Salisbury, as we don't want it to be too soft there on Wednesday. He will have a new distance (mile and six) and a new jockey (Daryll Holland), but neither of those factors provides reason for pessimism, so I hope that conditions remain in his favour: he doesn't like it firm, but he doesn't like it soft either. Other than that, our only likely visitor to a racecourse this week looks like being Jill Dawson, who is pencilled in for a stalls test on Friday. The winners keep coming from our little side of town, with Jonathan Jay's Tidal Fury winning yet again at Auteuil yesterday. This followed an across-the-country (journoes usually say 'across-the-card', but I'm not quite sure whether that cliche makes any sense) double for Jonathan's neighbour Willie Musson eleven days previously. We, though, seem to be letting the side down, so we'll try to pull our socks up. Just don't hold your breath.

Just before I go, I must share one little story with you. It concerns a jockey called T.Barry. I believe he's called Terry, and I seem to remember him riding in the Western District of Victoria, although I think he now rides at Caulfield. (I presume that the situation is still that each jockey in Australia has to nominate a particular track where they are based; this used to be the case because it was compulsory for jockeys to make themselves available to ride trackwork, the reason being that, as there wasn't that much racing, jockeys could go quite long periods between race-days, and thus might not be fit enough if they weren't riding work either. Mick Dittman was the first jockey to refuse to ride in the mornings. He was good enough to get away with it, and it is possible nowadays consequent to that, and because there is now basically racing every day there, that there is no longer a requirement for a jockey to be licensed via a particular track). Anyway, I digress. T.Barry weighed out, handed the saddle to the trainer, rode the horse, won the race and weighed in, say, two kilos light. It transpired that the trainer, when saddling the horse, had omitted to place the weight-cloth under the number cloth and saddle, leaving it instead unnoticed on the floor of the horse's stall. Predictably, the horse was disqualified and the trainer fined. But this was the remarkable part: T.Barry was also fined, a couple of hundred dollars I think, because he had failed to check that the horse was wearing all the gear he'd passed to the trainer. Can you believe that? The jockey couldn't check that by merely looking at the gear, because the number cloth would obscure what was underneath it: he'd actually have to pull the number cloth up before mounting the horse and feel around to see what was underneath (and he'd have to remember what gear he was actually using for that particular ride). Have you ever seen a jockey do that? In thirty years of watching a lot of parade rings, I've never seen such a thing happen. And yet the stewards in Melbourne apparently believe it is, or should be, an automatic part of a jockey's routine. Amazing.

And on the subject of different things happening in different countries, I noticed yesterday that my father's kitchen sink does not contain a washing-up bowl, an item found in most pommie kitchens. This observation will mean absolutely nothing to nearly everyone who reads this blog, but it might bring a smile to one little face. It might even bring a comment in the replies section. We'll see.