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We have one runner today at Lingfield

Friday, 03 March 2017

"A daughter may outgrow your lap, but she will never outgrow your heart."


Gee Sixty Six

It’s not that cold this morning but very damp. It has just started to rain properly from about 8.30 onwards and I think it is set in for quite a while. The weekend looks like it will remain very similar. I just hope the Clerk of the Course at Cheltenham hasn’t started his watering just yet as the ground there must be very much on the soft side. It is a hectic day with a runner at Lingfield, I am going to go to the BHA roadshow at the Racecourse, mares being scanned and covered, plus the normal day in the yard. The one thing is, it’s never boring. We have been cantering close to home on the polytracks trying to avoid the heavy showers.

Rum Ration

We were a bit unlucky last night when Gabriele dropped his whip at the furlong pole when just coming with his challenge. If he could have given her a couple of sharp ones, I think undoubtedly she would have won, but it was a good performance by her and there is definitely a race or two in this filly.

Indian Red is our runner today at Lingfield. He runs in the four runner maiden at 4.45. He was very slowly away last time due to his hood not being pulled off quick enough, but I am sure that if all goes well today, he won’t be disgraced. He is definitely one for the future over this sort of trip or further.

Over the weekend we just have the one runner, again at Lingfield. Lost The Moon runs in the apprentice race at 4.55 tomorrow. She has won her last two, both at Chelmsford. This will be a different surface and different track with a much shorter straight, and we are up in trip. I am hoping she can progress again and let’s hope she does.

Hold Firm

As I say I am going to the BHA roadshow today at Newmarket where the leaders of our industry will be giving us the lowdown on their plans on various aspects of the sport. It will be interesting to hear what they have to say and as usual I am sure there will be plenty of comment from the floor. I will let you know the outcome on Monday. 

Phil on Friday


A bit more Green family reminiscence this week …

My father was a blacksmith, just like his father, who (sorry Mark) they called ‘The Guvnor’, and his grandfather, ‘The Old Gent’. As far as I know, involvement with horses stretched even further back in the family than that.

Shoeing was their prime function, but they also undertook all kinds of metalwork. Even my father made all his own horseshoes and he had upwards of 400 horses on his books - ponies, hunters, racehorses, even some working remnants of the carthorse breeds.

They all loved their racing, and grandfather would regularly take my father and other members of his large family to Warwick, as well as their local course at Towcester.

It was quite an adventure in some unreliable old vehicle when Warwick was on the agenda, and it was the norm to stop at a pub after some 30 miles for refreshment. The favourite watering hole was at a village called Radford Semele, just short of Leamington Spa. Opposite the pub was a paddock surrounded by a broken-down old fence, a source of increasing annoyance to The Guvnor who was a stickler for having everything just so. He believed in not only good but first-class craftsmanship in all things, and the sight of this rusting eye-sore drove him to distraction.

He had been complaining about it for years, then suddenly decided he could stand it no longer. He took some measurements, returned home, and constructed a new iron fence with as much loving care as if it had been for himself, though he had no clue who owned the  paddock or the junk surrounding it.

Before dawn one Sunday, he and father set off to remove this irritant. They replaced it with the new ironwork and returned home without having seen anyone, or even attempted to seek out the owner.

Henceforth, on his way to Warwick races The Guvnor could sit in the pub and enjoy his pint, occasionally glancing out of the window to admire his handiwork instead of spoiling everyone’s day by moaning and groaning about its tumbledown predecessor. In all their subsequent trips the family never heard a word about the phantom fence-builder, but The Guvnor was a contented man. I often wonder what the owner thought when he saw the sparkling new ironwork.

This must all have happened in the 1920s. The fence lasted for years, but none of the locals ever knew who built it ….