A thoroughly depressing day

I'm going to contradict myself here. Well, sort of, anyway. I ended the chapter which I wrote before going to Towcester yesterday by implying that as long as the horse comes home safe, all's well with the world. George Washington's death had prompted that observation, and I should now be doubly mindful of it because there was a fatality in our race yesterday, as a mare fatally broke her leg passing the stands on the first circuit. So what I'm about to say has to be set against the background of Allouette coming home safe and sound, so I am aware that the day could have been a lot worse - but that's about all one can say about what was a thoroughly depressing outing.

Allouette arrived here last autumn, having had four outings on the flat during the summer. The highest top speed rating she had achieved in those was four races was 9. In her final start she had finished 15th of 15 at Redcar, beaten 56 lengths. In her penultimate start she had finished 10th of 10 at Newcastle, beaten 24 lengths. I was not happy with the muscle enzyme levels in her blood, but at least that made it possible to understand why she had been running worse than it should be possible for any fit, sound, healthy and willing horse to run. My suggestion was that she be turned out over the winter and come back into training six months later, when it would be possible to find out whether she really was that untalented. When she started being trained this summer, I wasn't optimistic because she did not seem to enjoy the life of a racehorse. However, in recent weeks she has finally shown some level of contentment with the role, and has learned to relax in her work and not worry about things so much. Recent gallops with Lady Suffragette and Take Me There had suggested that she should be able to run respectably, at a low level at least, and last week I enjoyed the nicest rides I'd ever had on her. It wasn't unreasonable to hope that she wouldn't disgrace either herself or, more pertinently, me at Towcester.

I'm afraid that the writing was on the wall as soon as we arrived at the races yesterday. As we unloaded her, it became apparent that she was awash with sweat from the journey over there: she'd obviously worked out she was going to the races, and was, to use an expression, shitting herself. As we washed her off in the racecourse stables, she was shaking. I was just so depressed. I felt we'd finally got her to the stage where she could enjoy the life of a racehorse, only discover that there was one thing we hadn't been able to address in the home environment: her fear of what modern jargon would describe as the racecourse experience. And I was bloody annoyed too: as I said to Emma, "This is a disgrace: no horse should have been allowed to get to the stage where he or she dislikes racing as much as this mare appears to". I just felt so sorry for her: she's a sweet mare, and she was so unhappy at the races yesterday, when it is something which basically a horse should be able to enjoy. She was surprisingly well-behaved in the parade ring, but jacked up going out onto the track. When she eventually did get down to the start, she travelled smoothly and jumped well for the first half of the race, but as soon as it began to become slightly harder work, she just jacked it in and dropped out. Tom (who rode her very nicely) wisely pulled her up before the second last hurdle when she was completely tailed off. She didn't tail herself off through exhaustion - although you obviously knew she'd been in a race, particularly because she was plastered in mud, she wasn't a tired horse, and her loins were hardly blown up at all, certainly a lot less than Take Me There's had been when he'd won easily two days previously - merely disinclination to become involved in the race. She isn't going to run again: there would be no point (although not because she is without ability, because she isn't), but she's made it quite plain that she doesn't want to race, and thus she'd never achieve anything. Well, perhaps 'never' is too strong a word to use, but it would take years to change mindset.

But what really depresses me is that, when I feel that we, by which I mean myself and the staff here, should be able to enjoy the satisfaction of a job well done, we can't. Quite the opposite in fact, as far as the world is concerned we've just done a very poor job. We've spent months preparing a horse for a race, and she hasn't even been able to complete the course, never mind do so in any respectable time. I was really proud of how we sent that mare to the races yesterday. She was fit and well. She looked well. She was working well and enjoying her work. Her jumping was excellent. And she had been far from easy to get that way. But, because of circumstances beyond our control - ie the mental hang-ups which had become inured in her brain prior to her arrival here - we just come across as a bunch of idiots. And that depresses me. Of course in theory it shouldn't, because the opinion by which you should set most store is your own, and if you believe you've done a good job, then that should be all that matters. But, of course, in practice that isn't all that matters, especially not when you're trying to run a business which depends for its financial survival on at least a few members of the world at large believing that you are competent. And, at a time like this when we are precariously short of patronage, that is something of which I am painfully aware.

Good - I've got that off my chest. I've bared my soul enough for one day, so I'll just move on to a few less serious topics before we have to ban this blog for being too depressing. I really enjoyed watching the televised racing from Aintree yesterday. I didn't see any racing from Galway, but I wish I had, as I think it would have made some interesting viewing. I know it's a stiff track, but 1:47.00 for decent older horses running over seven furlongs is truly remarkable. They don't even run that slowly in France. And if that doesn't give you an idea of the conditions, then how about a comment from the previous race, a two-year-old race over the same distance: "Second-favourite Invincible Joe, prominent early, was almost literally treading water in the final 3f"? And we thought conditions at Monmouth Park were about as bad as you'd get! It rained all afternoon at Towcester, other than during Allouette's race and for the twenty minutes either side of it, but I'd say we must have got off lightly.

What I have enjoyed, in addition to watching television, was reading Robert Harris' latest novel, 'Ghost'. It is outstanding. I'd rated 'Fatherland' as his best, but I think that this is as good. It was even better than the novel I'd read immediately previously, which was Peter Temple's 'In The Evil Day'. I think Peter Temple has only had three novels published in Europe, which is a shame as he's written more than that, and he's very good. The other two are both set in or near Temple's native Melbourne, but this is set in various locations around the world, none of them Australian. However, and this rather amused me, the author still shows his nationality with his use of the word 'but'. As you know, it is usual for anglophones who aren't Australian to place this word at the start of sentences or clauses. But Aussies put it at the end. Or perhaps I should, "Aussies put it at the end but". Or, as Temple would write, "Aussies put it at the end. But.". I find this really funny. It doesn't seem odd when he's using it this way in a novel set in Australia - certainly it doesn't register much on the scale of oddness, because there are whole passages of dialogue where the characters might as well be speaking Chaucerian English for how hard it is to understand what they are saying - but in 'In The Evil Day' it was very amusing, particularly when it appeared in dialogue of characters who definitely weren't Australian. Don't, though, let me put you off his work: he's an extremely good novelist but.

And, finally, I very much like the idea of Alan Taylor's trainers' race. There was one about eleven years ago. It was dubbed a 'midnight steeplechase', and was held at Moulton Paddocks in aid of the Bob Champion Cancer Trust. 'Steeplechase' was slightly misleading, as the jumps were straw bales, but the obstacles weren't the problem: the bends were the what were so frightening. And it wasn't at midnight, either, merely towards dusk. The race was over seven furlongs, which meant three times around the field, which was roughly triangular. When I arrived there, the jump jockeys' race was taking place, and I was petrified; they were going flat out, going round the bends far faster than common sense would say was prudent. I decided that I wouldn't try to win, but just aim to get round safely. But then I couldn't believe what came over me, because when we jumped off I threw caution to the winds, rode better and more bravely than I'd ever ridden previously, or have ridden since, and won the race, with Don Cantillon, who was disconsolate at not winning, a neck second. From memory, the other trainers who rode in the race were the late Phil McEntee and Tony Hide, possibly Paul Howling, and probably one or two others. So riding in a straight line up the Rowley Mile would be bliss. Funnily enough, David Hunter, the exceptionally nice clerk of the course at Fakenham who was extremely hospitable to us on Friday, was putting forward the idea of a charity trainer's race on Holkham Beach when he treated us to a drink after Take Me There's win. I'll make a few suggestions and see if anything could ever come of it. And, just before I close, I must add the lovely postscript to the Midnight Steeplechase at Moulton Paddocks. It was held in September, and in those days we used to have the AGM of the Newmarket Trainers' Federation on a Sunday evening in December in the offices of Rustons & Lloyds, the solicitors in the High Street. Tom Jones was still training at the time and was still chairman of the Federation, and afterwards he duly suggested we all retire to the Marlborough Club across the road. I don't think I'd ever spoken to him, and obviously regarded him with the awe that such a grand old man meritted, so you can imagine how proud I was when he came over to me at the bar and said, "I've been meaning to congratulate you on your win in the Midnight Steeplechase back in the summer: it was a jolly good show".