Outward bound

Most weeks contain highs and lows, and one of the highs of this week has been a close-up sighting of a muntjak on Monday morning. It is not infrequent to see one of these sweet little deer on the Heath - two instances I particularly remember are standing by the stalls at the back of Beech Hurst with Yarmy a few years ago and watching two engage in a protracted courtship chase in the middle of Bury Hill, and trotting with Squeak through the belt of trees lies on the other side of the Bury Road from the Limekilns and suddenly coming across a mother and baby - but such incidents, as one would expect, generally take place on the Heath or in a wood; this time it was as we trotted along the Rowley Drive horsewalk, and the deer crossed from Rowley Drive into the paddock below Fitzroy House. We were probably only around 20 yards away as this happened, and it was an endearing start to the day.

Such brushes with nature are a relatively rare thrill for me, but for Gemma, who was trotting alongside me, they are probably more commonplace as she is one of those outward-bound fanatics. Even to the extent of pitching a tent in the front room, donning a thermal bodysuit and equipping herself with a flask of tea and a slab of Kendal Mint Cake to watch her favourite TV programme, the Bear Grylls Show (which is probably the only TV show she watches, as otherwise she'd be outdoors undertaking some feat of endurance and derring-do). Falling asleep in comfort in front of a double bill of 'Two and a half men' in comfort is more my cup of tea.

There's been some outward-bound activity going on in the yard, though, this week as we've had Anthony here for part of his half-term. At this juncture I ought to warn anyone who comes to the stable that they might catch a whiff of a strange smell near the top of the yard, as Anthony yesterday informed me that he's made a den in the elderflower tree there - and, he proudly tells me "it's got a toilet in it". I only hope that this is merely a urinal rather than a cubicle. Anthony's now headed home for the rest of his half-term, and he's taken his friend Finn Tidmarsh with him (who came to France with us earlier in the spring, along with his father Michael) for a few days' break, which is really nice. While he was here, Anthony was long-suffering enough to come with us to the annual Town Council Public Meeting in the Memorial Hall, where the residents of the town have the opportunity to air their concerns about whatever worries them. I took the opportunity to raise yet again the issue of traffic hazards, and in particular the unnecessarily high speed limits which apply at the most dangerous points, while other members of the Save Historic Newmarket Action Group re-iterated some of our many other concerns. I don't quite know what Anthony made of it all, but he was polite enough not to complain, for which he was rewarded with a pizza in our excellent local restaurant Prezzo, which is at the other end of Exeter Road (ie by the Clock Tower), on the way home.

Local politics are probably slightly more straightforward than racing politics. I don't know what further progress is being made with Brian and Ben, but I suspect that racing's beneficiaries Harrison Fraser are probably well on their way to 'spending' (ie receiving) their second quarter-million. Budget restrictions (ie 250,000 pounds), apparently, were the reason why the initial research was concentrated solely on middle-class British males under the age of 55 - but the next tranche of cash and research should be well under way by now. One had to admire their reaction to the avalanche of criticism which inevitably rained down on them after they had come public with their findings: saying that they had anticipated some "Brian-like responses" and that these only emphasised the magnitude of the task which they faced was a stroke of genius, as it seemingly turned criticism into justification of their work. For that reason alone they should be hailed as genii!

Mind you, Harrison Fraser are far from alone in coming up with some weird ideas, as we were reminded the other day when the Racing Post wasted a page on a feature on a man who ought to have more sense than to think that the solution to racing's ills would be to stage two-furlong races and thus, apparently, make the sport LESS like greyhound racing. (The capitalization is mine, just to make sure that this splendid non-sequitur shouldn't escape the attention of any reader who was nodding off). Mind you, perhaps by not appreciating the theory that the way to make races more interesting is to make them shorter I am actually the only soldier on the parade ground out of step, as even the usually sensible David Ashforth is now putting forward the suggestion (in today's Post) of reducing the minimum distance from five to four furlongs; and I don't think that he is referring merely to early two-year-old races. Or maybe David's just been living in the States too long (ie a couple of months). I'll have to sound Stewart Leadley-Brown out on this one, although I suspect that even after 31 years of residency across the Pond he hasn't yet bought the 'shorter is better' idea.