Maddie’s World
In her weekly column, Maddie Grigg shares tales from her life in rural Dorset . . .
WE’RE about five miles into our journey and Mr Grigg realises he’s left his binoculars back in Lush Places. But we can’t turn around now as we’re well on our way.
We’re heading for the racecourse at Wincanton, Somerset, in a minibus hired by our pub landlords. Jim and Tonic are treating their staff to a day out as a way of saying thank you for holding the fort for them while they were on holiday.
They’ve kindly extended the invitation to partners and, as Mr Grigg did a few bar shifts in the pub, I get to tag along, too, which is nice.
There’s the four of us, along with barmaid Virginia Smooth, her partner Spanish John, her daughter, Teddy, and BJ, who works in the kitchen alongside Tonic.
We’re delayed slightly by a long detour which takes us around the back of Yeovil through shortcuts I never knew existed. Tonic is at the wheel of the eightseater and she’s handling it like a pro.
“You’re pretty good at this,” I say, envying her confidence behind the wheel of such a large vehicle.
“Yes,” she says. “I think I missed my calling.”
We’re not going that fast as Jim has massively mucked up the timings. We had set off at nine-thirty, but the first race is not until nearly two o’clock and Wincanton is less than an hour away from Lush Places.
So we stop off at a pub on the outskirts only to find it’s not open yet. So it’s up into the town itself (blink and you miss it).
Tonic pulls into a parking space with the expertise of a woman who has been driving large vehicles containing noisy passengers all her life.
We walk into the town and find an empty former coaching inn, which is just opening up and does a nice line in teas and coffees, as well as something a little stronger for those who want it.
Mr Grigg pops out for a newspaper, while I suddenly remember I have an old school friend who knows all about horseracing, so I text him for a few tips.
By the time Mr Grigg comes back, I can confidently predict some winners and he looks at me with a cross between pride and astonishment on his face, especially when I recommend an accumulator bet.
We while away the time on a pub quiz machine and then discuss tactics for the day ahead.
In the racecourse car park, we see our local churchwarden and his wife, along with the young man who runs the walking football group to which Mr Grigg belongs.
“Fancy seeing you here,” I say to the churchwarden.
We usually meet when we’re out dog walking in the mornings. I’m usually on my way with Arty to the field just past his house and he’s bound for the village shop to get a paper with Archie, his Scottie dog, in tow.
The churchwarden confides that it’s his first time at the races, and I am able to confess that it’s my first time, too. I’ve been to point-to-point, but never National Hunt racing. “Got any tips?” he asks. “Yes,” I say. “Don’t bother to bet. Hang on to your money and just have a good day.”
I know from my experience at point-to-point racing that I don’t have what it takes to choose a winner. I go for a horse that looks nice or has a name that resonates with my life. It always comes in last.
We spend a lovely afternoon in glorious sunshine. I’ve switched my phone off and am just enjoying a day out doing something completely different.
At the end of the day, everyone has backed a winner, apart from me and Spanish John. My old schoolfriend’s racing tips almost came through, but the last horse fell at the final fence.
Jockey and horse go on to race another day. And so do I. n