From Aintree to York: Enjoying the Racing Experience

Whether you are an occasional or a regular racegoer this title aims to enhance the rich and varied experience of a day at the races. Stephen Cartmell uses both his knowledge of racing as well as his keen skills in observing people to write an entertaining guide and travelogue. "From Aintree To York" is an account of Stephen Cartmel's journey around the 59 racecourses of the British Isles and the stories and characters he encounters along the way. With his acute eye for observation, an appreciation of the ridiculous and the ability to find humour even in the face of petty officialdom, this book is not simply a book about racing - but an examination of a slice of quintessentially British life.

It all started with four threepenny bits wrapped tightly in a grubby handkerchief. Hardly the crown jewels, but at the time these four coins represented my total life savings. I was desperate for a new fishing rod and certain I’d found a short cut to raising the money.

"Sixpence each-way? You sure?" asked my elder brother.

"Yes," I answered with nervous bravado, untying the knot and spilling the coins onto the table. "All of it."

The rest, as they say, is history. Dick Francis was only a few hundred yards from the winning post when Devon Loch decided he would entertain his royal owner with an impression of a ballerina performing the splits.

"We are not amused," murmured the Queen Mother as ESB gratefully took his chance and romped home to win by a distance. And I was on it, screaming at the wireless as he was declared the winner. At a starting-price of 100-7, my dreams had been answered - the new fishing rod had become a reality.

You may well think that, even as a small child, I had developed the ability to read racing form. Sadly, this was not the case. My only motive for selecting ESB was that I was incapable of reading the names of any other horse, as I had only reached the stage of recognising separate letters. ESB fitted the bill perfectly - and so became my first ‘mug’s bet’ winner. A small punter had been born during the magic of a Grand National.

The last time I visited Aintree on the Saturday of the big race had been in 1965, when Jay Trump made it a very profitable day. Unfortunately, despite travelling 80 miles in a road-weary Austin A40, the immense crowd meant that I saw nothing more than the bobbing head of Fred Winter’s winning horse. What’s more, my old banger broke down on the way home, creating a traffic jam which looked as if it stretched back to Southport. The trauma of this experience has stayed with me, and on this occasion I opted to play safe and visit the course on a Thursday, the day of the Foxhunters Chase, which runs over the National circuit. I had come to see the course, rather than spend four hours with my nose pressed hard against the neck of a Liverpudlian punter.

Get there early. Even on the first day of the National meeting, traffic begins to build up about ten miles from the course and the signposts would test a taxi driver with the nose of a bloodhound. Having followed a number of obscure directions for the Canal Turn, I eventually ended up in a Merseyside Water Board pumping station. Somewhat bemused, and with the aid of a kindly man who had slipped out for a quick smoke, I parked up in the Aintree Retail Park, which lies only a short walk from the racecourse’s main entrance. Despite being stung for five pounds, it’s a good spot and one to aim for if you can get there before midday.

Owing to the IRA bomb scare in the mid-nineties, security at Aintree is so tight that it would have been easier for me to get into as a pair of trousers with a 32-inch waist. There were so many men in dark glasses and discreet earpieces that I half expected to see the arrival of Bill Clinton - with a moll on his arm. As it turned out, Aintree proved to be a personality-free zone, barring a couple of second division TV actors who looked desperate to be recognised.

Having survived an intimate body search, I stepped into the arena, the entrance lying directly behind the old but still impressive County Stand. There is no gradual effect at Aintree. The impact and sense of occasion is immediate, the atmosphere almost tangible. It’s a sensation I have only encountered at a British Grand Prix or the first day of a Lords test, a quality which can’t be measured or analysed. I could tell you that bands were playing, clowns were performing, crowds were bustling, spring flowers were blooming and voices buzzed with excitement. But it would be inadequate. As ineffectual as telling you what ingredients went into my Aunt Nellie’s old-fashioned chocolate cake. At Aintree the whole is definitely greater than the sum of its parts - and you’ll just have to get out of your armchair and make the effort to pay a visit.

If you do, I’d suggest you try and arrive at least two hours before the start of the first race. This will give you chance to stretch your legs and head off on the course-walking route. Thankfully, this is not an organised tour and you are left to wander over and across the course to see the famous fences at close quarters.

After crossing the Melling Bridge, the walk cuts in to the centre course and takes you up the long back straight towards Becher’s Brook and the Canal Turn. Unless you’ve got very high blood pressure or a nervous disposition, don’t miss this opportunity. The whole walk takes about an hour at a fairly brisk pace, but you’ll return to the stands with the adrenalin pumping and a certainty that jumps jockeys are either completely mad or braver than a cat turning up at Crufts.

The Aintree fences have been described on many occasions, attracting more comment than the Mona Lisa in a Teach Yourself Painting book. But they easily qualify as works of art, their spruce construction warranting a place in any London gallery. Yet it was the two fences which follow Becher’s Brook that took my eye rather than Becher’s terrifying obstacle.