That Larkin poem is a wonder, even to a jump person like me. And the affinity one feels with the best of the best...I could never watch Desert Orchid run without a tear in my eye and I remember once going to see Pennwood Forge Mill (show jumper extraordinaire) in retirement and loving the calm, glossy fatness of him.
I lived in Bristol for a while as a student, and used to go to Chepstow when I could. We saw Desert Orchid before he was mega-famous! Such a wonderful horse.
Oh dear God, how I agree with you. The best day of my life was watching Ray Cochrane FORCE Harry, a horse that hated to be in front, up the hill at Sandown to the finishing post and our first win. (Harry contrived to finish a close head in a two-horse race at Yarmouth.) The utter euphoria of that day will never leave me. Compare and contrast two years ago at the July course when I vowed never ever to go to a racecourse again.
I hate the electronic betting boards, the after-racing pop music from third rate bands, the over-emphasis on catering, the corporate hospitality — but most of all the idiots who decided that people would not just come for the beautiful beasts that are pivotal to the whole shebang.
I still watch flat racing on tv (like you I can’t bear the jumps) and still adore the horses and those who ride and train them. The rest can go bury their stupid heads in pints of prosecco and get their silly stilettos stuck in the turf. (Sorry, this has turned into a bit of a rant but it makes me so mad and so sad what racing has become.)
Also meant to say that while reading The Adventures of Miss Pym, I came across,
“ Elizabeth Taylor was also a friend of Ivy Compton-Burnett. Jock reported that when Ivy first met Elizabeth she remarked: ‘She is a young woman who looks as if she never had to wash her gloves.’ Taylor was extremely beautiful and elegant and it is possible that Pym felt intimidated. By this time, Taylor had published her fifth novel. Jock thought her fourth novel, A Wreath of Roses, a masterpiece. He also said that this was the time that Taylor was attacked by envious reviewers. Years later, Pym said that Taylor was socially shy and was sometimes misunderstood as being aloof or bored."
A superb rant if I may say so. EVERY WORD inc about the July Course, which should be like being in heaven and is now positively Hogarthian (although still lovely on a quiet Thursday). After the Show liked to come late too. Not ideal in a sprinter. But no feeling like it when it came off.
It’s quite a special thing, I think, to be able to conjure up something you love and ‘show’ it, really show it, to a person you perhaps didn’t even know. I think it might be about being an awfully good writer!
lovely evocation of a tradition in decline, but still vaguely here. all my life I've yearned to turn back the clock. I like how you cling to the disappearing. I suppose having your very own race horse must help. you're a lucky lady. and it's nice of you to share your luck by writing.
This is lovely and poignant. Thank you. I can’t cope with the jumps any more, either. Never could cope with the Grand National. But I used to go to Newmarket with my parents, growing up (my mother’s father having been a farmer years ago who bred and rode point-to-pointers). Happy memories.
That Larkin poem is a wonder, even to a jump person like me. And the affinity one feels with the best of the best...I could never watch Desert Orchid run without a tear in my eye and I remember once going to see Pennwood Forge Mill (show jumper extraordinaire) in retirement and loving the calm, glossy fatness of him.
Calm glossy fatness. I love it. Oh Desert Orchid was very very special, that beautiful kind head...
I lived in Bristol for a while as a student, and used to go to Chepstow when I could. We saw Desert Orchid before he was mega-famous! Such a wonderful horse.
Oh dear God, how I agree with you. The best day of my life was watching Ray Cochrane FORCE Harry, a horse that hated to be in front, up the hill at Sandown to the finishing post and our first win. (Harry contrived to finish a close head in a two-horse race at Yarmouth.) The utter euphoria of that day will never leave me. Compare and contrast two years ago at the July course when I vowed never ever to go to a racecourse again.
I hate the electronic betting boards, the after-racing pop music from third rate bands, the over-emphasis on catering, the corporate hospitality — but most of all the idiots who decided that people would not just come for the beautiful beasts that are pivotal to the whole shebang.
I still watch flat racing on tv (like you I can’t bear the jumps) and still adore the horses and those who ride and train them. The rest can go bury their stupid heads in pints of prosecco and get their silly stilettos stuck in the turf. (Sorry, this has turned into a bit of a rant but it makes me so mad and so sad what racing has become.)
Also meant to say that while reading The Adventures of Miss Pym, I came across,
“ Elizabeth Taylor was also a friend of Ivy Compton-Burnett. Jock reported that when Ivy first met Elizabeth she remarked: ‘She is a young woman who looks as if she never had to wash her gloves.’ Taylor was extremely beautiful and elegant and it is possible that Pym felt intimidated. By this time, Taylor had published her fifth novel. Jock thought her fourth novel, A Wreath of Roses, a masterpiece. He also said that this was the time that Taylor was attacked by envious reviewers. Years later, Pym said that Taylor was socially shy and was sometimes misunderstood as being aloof or bored."
Thanks Ruth. Fascinating.
A superb rant if I may say so. EVERY WORD inc about the July Course, which should be like being in heaven and is now positively Hogarthian (although still lovely on a quiet Thursday). After the Show liked to come late too. Not ideal in a sprinter. But no feeling like it when it came off.
The love on your face in that photograph is palpable. A beautiful piece.
Oh thank you Deborah ❤️ He won't keep still so the pics are never great but yes, much love!!!!
My only connection to horse racing are the books of Dick Francis, but you have brought awe and yearning to me and tears to my eyes.
That's the loveliest comment. Thank you so much.
It’s quite a special thing, I think, to be able to conjure up something you love and ‘show’ it, really show it, to a person you perhaps didn’t even know. I think it might be about being an awfully good writer!
Really kind. Thank you.
Love this poem, love Stubbs.
I've never read that poem, thank you so much
People who take Cocaine are so boring…
And LOUD!
lovely evocation of a tradition in decline, but still vaguely here. all my life I've yearned to turn back the clock. I like how you cling to the disappearing. I suppose having your very own race horse must help. you're a lucky lady. and it's nice of you to share your luck by writing.
Many thanks for this. He was Dad's horse really, I could never afford a thoroughbred but I am indeed very lucky to have inherited him! A great joy.
Ah, once again, so fascinating about something in which I have no interest. Brilliant
Oh you are so lovely! Thank you Mark.
This is lovely and poignant. Thank you. I can’t cope with the jumps any more, either. Never could cope with the Grand National. But I used to go to Newmarket with my parents, growing up (my mother’s father having been a farmer years ago who bred and rode point-to-pointers). Happy memories.
Thank you so much for reading these Catherine - happy memories I’m sure of Newmarket. I so appreciate your lovely comments!
Thank you!
I tried to read Larkin's poem aloud to someone; I couldn't do it, either.
Oh Laura.
🐎🤎