Golden Valley Point to Point, Bredwardine
Another glorious day, after a glorious weekend. The Herefordshire landscape is stunningly beautiful, the countryside bursting with life. The birds are all singing and busy building nests. There is lots of sparrow business going on in our yew tree and under the eaves of our house. The green of the grass and the leaves of the trees is intense, in that succulent juicy newness that comes at this time of year. The May blossom fills the landscape with frothy white and the wild flowers scatter the hedgerows with a profusion of pink campions, bluebells, golden buttercups and lacy cow parsley.
We arrived at the Golden Valley Point-to-Point in Bredwardine, after driving through this stunning backdrop. It was the most beautiful setting, in a field on the banks of the River Wye. The hillside running down to the site formed a natural grandstand. We settled down on the grass to watch the races on the oval course that ran out through the fields below us. It was a longish course – two and a half laps of jump racing over birch hedges – a test of stamina for the magnificent beasts that were gathering in the paddock before the race. It was our first time at the races. We were as fresh and green as the grass to this sort of thing. We met some friends, Dil and Debs, who indicated that if we wanted to get a look at the horses before we put a bet on, we had better get a move on as the race was about to start. We tore down the slope and watched each horse as it went by in the paddock. Not having had time to study the form or work out which horse was which, we went purely on looks – did its legs look strong and was there fire in its eyes? I liked the look of No.3 who turned and eyeballed me as it went passed. But No.10 was also a fine looking horse with plenty of spirit. Come to think of it, they were all pretty magnificent, as creatures go. Bill and Phoebe also both liked the look of No.3 so we decided to push the boat out and put £2 on ‘Drive Home Regardless’ to win. It was exciting clasping our ticket in hand and rushing back up the slope to watch. Dil said he would have put his money on No.9 ‘Once in a Lifetime’ because he liked the name, but that he didn’t bet as it was against his religion. So we’d all chosen, and off they went, powering over the course. Our horse looked in a good position, up with the front runners, but not exhausting himself by trying to set the pace. To our extreme excitement he went into the lead with half a lap to go. ‘Come on, Drive Home Regardless,’ we yelled. Then, jumping the last two fences badly, he slipped back to third, as No.10, Russian Empire and then Dil’s horse Once in a Lifetime raced past him to win.
With time on our hands to study the article that I’d brought with me about the form, we realised that the writer had correctly predicted the first two and that Dil had predicted the winner just from its name. That was it, Dil had got the bug and he merrily raced down with us to look at the horses and put a bet on the next race. I commented to Dil that No. 9 seemed to have good muscle definition in it’s backside and was getting my vote, to which he cheekily asked whether I meant the horse or the pretty woman who was leading it.
And so it went on with each race. Between Bill, Phoebe and myself, we were pretty good at picking a horse that came in the top 3, but we seemed to pick the front runners who tired and were overtaken in the home stretch by the good tacticians, and we lost our money every time. Perhaps we were picking the ones with too much fire in their eyes, who weren’t able to pace themselves? Ah well, it was only £2 and it made the race more exciting if you had picked a horse to cheer on. Dil who went more by the names he liked (or whether there was good muscle definition in the lady leading them), picked the next winner and actually won some money this time. He was extremely chuffed and even persuaded Debs to have flutter on the next race.
And so the exciting afternoon went on. Sometimes, instead of going back up the hill to watch the race, we stood by the rail to feel the raw power of the horses as they thundered past us. It was so exhilarating. We were having a great time.
Then tragedy struck. As the horses were led around the paddock, I couldn’t make up my mind which horse to put money on and almost didn’t bet at all. Bill had gone to the bar to get a beer, so it was down to me. Phoebe couldn’t make up her mind either. It was between No.7 Lady Myfanwy and No.17 Wiston Dreamer. As I walked away from the paddock, the number 17 kept flashing up in my mind. I looked at the form guide which told me that Wiston Dreamer had won his race at Pentreclwydau on 5th May, beating Once in a Lifetime, Dil’s winner. So I rushed to the bookie and put my £2 bet on, just in time.
Up the slope we all dashed to watch the race. Wiston Dreamer was running a superb race, staying with the leaders in 3rd or 4th place for the first lap, then going into the lead down the back stretch of the final lap, a good couple of jumps and then leading into the final turn before the run for home. Something made me shout out, ‘Don’t go too wide on the turn,’ a millisecond before we saw him do exactly that, and as he did, he slipped and fell. A collective gasp went up from the crowd. Debs was watching intently. I could barely bring myself to look. ‘It’s OK, the jokey’s up and the horse is up,’ she said. Then she bit her lip and went pale, ‘No, the horse is down again. Looks like he might have broken a leg.’
‘What does that mean?’ I asked, dreading to hear the answer.
‘If it’s broken, they’ll shoot him straight away,’ said Dil. ‘The anatomy of a horse’s leg is just too difficult to mend.’
The other horses were all home and the announcer cheerily declaring the winner, carefully neglecting to mention the traumatic event that was unfolding in the distance.
We watched with baited breath as the horse ambulance and another truck raced to where Wiston Dreamer lay. He tried twice more to get up and fell back down both times. Then we couldn’t see what was happening because the horse ambulance and the truck obscured the view.
‘I’m afraid I think it’s curtains,’ whispered Debs, not wanting Phoebe to hear. ‘Put it this way, the ramp of the horse ambulance didn’t go down, but the ramp of the meat wagon did. They’d have put him in the ambulance if there was any chance of saving him.’
My heart sank to the floor and my eyes filled with tears. The fun and excitement had all gone out of the afternoon. I couldn’t believe that no-one else seemed to care or to want to find out what had happened to Wiston Dreamer. I felt heartbroken for the owners and for the jockey who had ridden him.
The horses clearly love to run. One horse, who had unseated his rider still ran on and tried to win the race, coming second and looking very pleased with himself. It was exhilarating and made you feel alive to be near these magnificent horses, so full of power. But there we have it, full of life and power one minute, then one wrong turn and you are dead. Bill tried to comfort me, saying he died doing something that he loved and that if it had happened when he was racing across the plains in the wild, he would have been eaten by the wolves. At least this way it was all over quickly.
But I still don’t know what to do with this – I don’t know where to hold it in my heart. One minute, Wiston Dreamer, a winning horse in fine form, was galloping joyfully towards victory, the next minute he was broken and gone. The paper thin gap between life and death, between this world and the next, had just been breached. I suppose we all need to live with the knowledge that death could be just around the corner and yet with this knowledge, to still run joyfully towards life with our arms open wide, just as Wiston Dreamer did.
The light is incredible today. Herefordshire is bursting with green juiciness under the clear blue skies. Perhaps it is this clarity of light that helped me come to a big decision – one that I’ve been putting off for some time. It really came home to me whilst walking in Paradise Woods yesterday. Those woods are like a lost enchanted kingdom. As I stopped by the waterfall, I half expected to see a water nymph step from behind the cascade.
As I walked further in through the dappled sunlight and the fragrant, mossy, leafiness, surrounded by wildflowers and the sound of nothing but birdsong, I kept catching glimpses of things moving just out of the corner of my eye, as if some woodland sprite had just run giggling behind a tree. Soon my heart was melting with the joyous beauty of it all. I’ve been feeling despondent and a bit stuck lately, blaming it on all sorts of possibilities and wondering what the cure might be. Walking in that magical woodland made me see that I’ve been denying myself regular doses of this beauty which inspires and uplifts me so much, because my hip and back have now become too painful for me to walk very far without extreme difficulty. So now I know what I need to do.
For those of you who don’t know my recent history, my last hip replacement came after a very tragic and traumatic time, when I lost a twin pregnancy. The first baby left at 10 weeks and I nearly lost my life giving birth to little Hector at 22 weeks. The physical and emotional trauma of this left me in a very debilitated state and it was a year after Hector’s death before I could bring myself to have the hip replacement operation that I so needed. With hindsight, I should have done it long before, avoiding many months of disability and extreme pain. At the worst of it, I could barely walk from one end of the kitchen to the other, and life seemed very grim indeed. So I promised myself that when it came to the time that my other hip needed to be replaced, I wouldn’t wait for things to get so dire before I made the decision. That time is now.
Anna Bromley - Author 