A racehorse trainer wanders through empty stands and paddocks amid the ghosts of past revelry – mostly just glad to be there at all.
She was not there. Where we meet every year, there was nothing but a muddy corner of a deserted car park. We see each other for only five days a year, but we greet with a hug and a kiss. And she ensures that I have the pick of the cornflowers that sit amid the myriad display of colour on her stall. I looked where she always is, and it was sad to see nobody there.
They were not there. The rows of cars that have nudged and edged their way into their usual drop zones in the owners and trainers car park and have spilled their contents onto immaculate tablecloths. Tables that groan under the weight of the finest wines and champagnes. Plates filled with smoked salmon, prawns, dressed crabs and oysters. Fillets of beef and vast saddles of ham. I looked where my friends always are, and it was sad to see nobody there.
It was not there. The tented village where that magical and much-missed pre-parade ring used to be. No White’s, no Turf, no Brook’s or the Garrick. No Jockey Club or Royal Ascot Racing Club. No champagne bar abuzz with the beautiful and the louche and the downright decadent. No laughter as another cork heads skywards. No waves and smiles from old friends seated in the sun around white tables covered in bottles, racecards, tattered newspapers, fag packets and iced coffee. I looked where my friends always are, and it was sad to see nobody there.
I headed to the paddock to see the runners for the Hardwicke Stakes. The steppings usually crowded high, latecomers hopping on tiptoe to catch a distant glimpse of the protagonists. The old pros in their usual spots, taking notes, weighing life-changing bets, chasing losses and playing up the winnings. The paddock filled with plenty doing a job, and plenty enjoying an idle saunter in the sunshine on the hallowed turf. For some, a moment that will live with them for the rest of their lives. For others, just another race, and just another pre-race chat. But this time I had the viewing steps pretty much to myself. A relief to see a great friend or two, and to feel the fun of laughter and conversation amid the eerie silence. But in the main, just muffled conversations behind uncomfortable face masks before jockeys were legged up and sent on their way with a final nod saying more than any words. I loved that Ascot had produced some of its wonderful racecards that feel so good in the hand, but it was sad to see nobody there.
Out through the vast emptiness of the grandstand to the grass beyond. I have my favourite place on the lawn. It has been a very lucky place: I have stood there and had my life changed forever as the thunderbolt called Belgian Bill blazed home against the far rail. I have stood there when the cards have not dropped right, the gaps have closed, the chance is gone, and the race has been run. And it has not been our turn to dance the dance of all dances. But it is my favourite place, and I will always go there. Like a pilgrim returning to a holy place that has filled their life with joy. There are others who head to the same blades of royal grass. I know some of them; I have nodded at others as we pass by, year on year. I looked at where they always are, and it was sad to see nobody there.
Eerie, silent, empty, and not how it should be.
But in a strange way that I cannot quite compute,
it was utterly brilliant and utterly magical
When our race was run, and the muffled chat complete, I headed back over the road. But nobody was there. No rush to set up the tables and pull the corks from bottles of several colours. No ringing of the mobile as friends navigate their way through the Hogarthian frenzy. No comparing of notes and telling of tales. No laughter, no hugging, no kissing. No old friends. Just nothing. I looked at the place where we always would be, and it was very sad to see nobody there.
Eerie, silent, empty, and not how it should be. But in a strange way that I cannot quite compute, it was utterly brilliant and utterly magical. We were there, and this great sport of ours was leading the charge. The charge back. The charge that will lead to us meeting again in that car park, in that tented village, beside the paddock and out on that wondrous lawn. A few short weeks ago, Royal Ascot was a distant mirage that seemed beyond our reach. Through the good offices and hard endeavour of numerous wise folk, the meeting has been a massive statement of intent, and a raging success. This sport of ours is beyond compelling, and beyond brilliant.
Great tales have been written over these few days, and we have watched it play out from afar. Rapt. Entranced. Totally engaged by the superb ITV coverage that I now wish our frantic, motorway-beholden lives allowed me to watch more often. Perhaps recent times have taught us that there should be less of the frantic in our lives, but I guess time, as ever, will tell on that one. We are not out of any woods just yet, and dark headlines still abound. It will be some time before we can race and sing and dance and party together. But we are headed, albeit on tiptoes, in the right direction. There is talk of a ‘new normal’. That’s not for me: I crave the old normal, and that is what we must fight tooth and nail to return to.
At a time when it appears fashionable to airbrush rather than contextualise our island’s history, it is mightily pleasing to be able to say that June’s sport atop those gilded Berkshire acres will forever have a good place in the rich history of our magnificent sport. These have been unsettling and troubling times for so many, and we are mere bit-part players in the great irrelevance that is sport. But Royal Ascot, and other meetings since, have brought so much joy into many lives. Those who made it so deserve the greatest accolades, and their vision and the success of the meeting should be shouted from the rooftops of that great grandstand and from further afield.
