We went racing at Fakenham today. It's something we'd been talking about for ages, going to a small course where I could see the horses close up, and stand down by the rails and hear the thunder of hooves as they go over a fence, but we'd never got round to it. Finally today was the day.
It's years since I went to the races at all, and I wasn't sure what to expect. It turns out that Fakenham is a sweet little racecourse. The Systems Administrator, who takes racing seriously, got us our orange day member passes, which entitled us to use the members' end of the little stand, and use the bar in the small but perfectly formed members' pavilion. Admittedly the other end of the stand was open to non-members, but the bar was jolly nice, with a view down on to the finishing line and across the course, and heating. (The heating probably made all the difference, as I'm typing this after spending two hours in the warm car on the way back and I'm still cold).
The first race wasn't until 1.30pm, and we arrived before then, having allowed for traffic which turned out not to need that much allowing for. We saw the last heats of some greyhound racing, and then there was a parade by the West Norfolk Foxhounds and the North Norfolk Harriers. The harriers were some sort of small hound that came in subdued shades of magnolia rather than white and tan, very tasteful, and apparently they are one of only seven packs in the world. The huntsmen wore coloured coats and blew their horns, and tipped their hats to various eminent local ladies whom they addressed as 'Ma'am', and I thought that is really why so many urban politicians hate fox-hunting. It isn't purely indignation about the sufferings of the fox, otherwise they'd make an equal amount of fuss about intensive farming. It's a class thing. Oh well. The hounds were very well behaved, and the huntsmen must have had faith in their good nature, because members of the public were invited on to the course to meet them.
Then there were the races. I understand nothing about racing, except that all the races were won by a horse. In fact, the last race we stayed for was won by a mare, and I was pleased to see a female getting a look-in. The horses were very beautiful, and none of the jockeys fell off, and the green screens never had to go up, which is my definition of a successful race meeting. We went down and stood by the parade ring and admired them at close quarters, and stood by the rails to hear them thundering past and watch them jump, and stood in the stand where we had a view to the far side of the course, and inside the bar where we had a view and heating. It was vibrant but not too crowded. In fact, it was a perfect sporting event, from the viewpoint of somebody who isn't interested in sport.
I began to get my ear in for the commentary. It is much less waffly and more precise than I'd realised, with its own phrases that carry specific meanings. Some horses were said to be 'not travelling', which sounds contradictory when they are galloping, but means not running freely and easily. Likewise one was said to be 'ridden along', which again sounds silly, when it's got a jockey on its back who is riding it, but means that the horse is not running well and the jockey is using arms and legs to urge it on.
The Systems Administrator placed a couple of modest bets, working on the theory that there had to be a reason why Jonjo O'Neill had sent two John P McManus horses to run at Fakenham. The theory turned out not to work. I don't know why the SA expected it to work, given that long days of this winter's successive colds were largely spent building enormous spreadsheets of racing results, and testing theories of betting, none of which worked. Using the best theories the punter ends up about 5% down, which is what I'd expect. Bookies make a living, don't you know. But it's the taking part that counts.
There were lots of dogs, on leads. The programme had a note saying that Fakenham was one of the few UK courses that allowed dogs into the enclosures, and would owners please keep their dogs on leads, as there had been an incident in the past when a dog ran on to the course during a race, and if it happened again dogs would have to be banned (well, the programme said the Racecourse Management would be forced to consider banning them, but I can't imagine the decision would go the other way). The dogs all seemed to be enjoying themselves very much, bouncing up and down at the other dogs, and sniffing them, and watching the hounds. I find that dogs add greatly to the atmosphere of country events, and am all in favour of them.
The final of the greyhound race was won by a lady dog, by a very short head. The final of the whippets and lurchers race was a shambles, as after a promising start one of the contestants started barging the other off the course, and they stopped half way to the finishing line and had a friendly wrestling match instead of a race. The person doing the commentary with great decisiveness awarded first prize to the dog in the red collar, on the grounds that it had got further before stopping.
The Queen had two winners, although I don't think she was there in person to see them. My favourite winner was the mare, partly because she struck a blow for equal rights, and because she was bred, owned and trained by the same person. They'll be having a real celebration tonight. When you own lots of horses, like the Queen or John P McManus, and don't have a hands-on role in their careers, it can't be quite the same when they win.
We skipped the last two races, which were a hunter race with only three runners and a flat race, and managed most of the drive home in the light. Two hours exactly. I recommend Fakenham racecourse, if you like country days out, even if you aren't fussed about racing.
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