Wynn MedingerBy Rebecca Baldridge
It was a magnificent hat. Cream-colored, saucer-shaped, with a profusion of pink, navy, and cream bows exploding from the back. A hairdresser had pinned it atop my hair like a crown. Imagine my dismay when it slipped its delicate bonds and parted company with my head a mere two hundred yards from the entrance to the storied Ascot Racecourse. This may sound like a minor annoyance to you, dear reader, but it hit me like a falling brick. This was the opening day of Royal Ascot, and I was hot-footing it to the Royal Enclosure. For an avowed Anglophile and lover of the turf, this was a red-letter day, the sweet finale of months of effort. And it was all crumbling to bits because of an ill-fitting hat. Royal Enclosure rules are incontestable: no lady will be admitted without a hat. There was no way I was going to get that cream-colored confection re-anchored short of using a staple gun. What a calamity.
Royal Ascot is the world’s most famed horse racing event, the highlight of England’s summer social season, and a celebration of royal pageantry. Windsor Castle rises magnificently in the distance, overlooking the velvet green of the track, and each day of racing begins with the Royal Procession from the Castle, traditionally led by Her Majesty the Queen—now of late memory, alas—in a gleaming landau flanked by outriders.
While Ascot offers a variety of enjoyable options for racing aficionados to view the sport, there was only one for me—the Royal Enclosure. In 1845, authorities enclosed the area in front of the Royal Stand for a visit by Czar Nicholas I. It was immediately the most exclusive precinct of the racecourse and remains so today.
The Royal Enclosure maintains its distinction by limiting admission to invited members and their guests. The inclusion process begins with a deceptively simple application on the racecourse website. The kicker is that two current members, each with a minimum of seven years standing, must support the application. That was a challenge for a Yank unaccustomed to tippling with London’s toffs and swells.
As good fortune had it, Lavell, my boon companion on many an adventure, is not only English but an Oxford graduate with enough Old Boy Etonian ex-boyfriends to crew a coxed four. “Leave it with me,” she said reassuringly. Letters were sent, old favors called in, and after what seemed an eternity, success! For just one hundred of the soundest of His Majesty’s most sovereign pounds, we were Royal Enclosure Members for life! While getting into the Royal Enclosure takes some doing, racegoers have other options available for the price of a ticket. The Queen Anne Enclosure is business class compared to the Royal Enclosure’s first. Gentlemen can wear business suits, although most still opt for the traditional top hat and tails. The Village and Windsor Enclosures are progressively less formal. Each enclosure has its own unique atmosphere, but the Royal Enclosure is draconian in its rules. Formal day wear is de rigueur, and hats, not fascinators, are mandatory. No bare shoulders, no halter necks, and certainly no spaghetti straps or miniskirts. We are ladies! Gentlemen must wear a black or gray morning coat, striped trousers, waistcoat, and a top hat. And woe to he whose shoes are not black!
We collected our Royal Enclosure badges, our names meticulously handwritten, and passed through the gates. Clasping the errant hat to my head, I threaded through the throngs of gloriously-topped guests. This was insupportable!
Lavell gave me a gentle prod, “Ahoy! A shop!” Near the back, amidst the official Ascot-branded tea towels, travel mugs, neckties, and sundry souvenirs stood a rack bearing a small collection of straw hats. Perfect for a polo match, but for the Royal Enclosure…well, it would have to do. An elegant blond woman passed by wearing an airy organza dress and stunning chapeau worthy of the Duchess of Cambridge. I winced, clamped the poor straw to my head, and assumed an elegant attitude. No hat was going to spoil this long-awaited day.
Outlook adjusted, we entered the Royal Enclosure and strolled through a garden dotted with delicate wooden tables lightly shaded by expansive white umbrellas. Men in stripey trousers and top hats poured bubbly for ladies bristling with brilliant plumage. The grass was so green, the sky cerulean, the sun hot as blazes. Concerned I might burst into flames in the sunlight, I suggested we might be happier inside in the shade.
The racecourse building might look familiar to some—it doubled for Shanghai Airport in Skyfall. We passed several swell restaurants, as well as a multitude of bars and stalls offering Pimm’s and champagne. If you don’t have a pal with a passel of Old Boys at her beck and call, here’s an expensive secret. Book a table at one of the Royal Enclosure’s fine dining halls and get a badge for the day. There are four: the Sandringham, Trackside, Veranda, and Parade Ring, each featuring menus by Michelin-starred chefs. While its costs upwards of £900* per person, you get a table for the entire day, free-flowing champagne, and afternoon tea to boot. Equestrian dreams rarely come cheap.
Inside, a party was underway all ‘round the compass. We ascended an escalator and found ourselves a shady roost in the stands. It was so gallingly hot that Lavell and I rejected the champers for a couple of icy ladylike pints. We staked out a comfortable spot with an excellent view over the track, taking care to ensure that no voluminous headgear was blocking the action. As is my way, I started to get impatient—it was going on 2 p.m. Looking toward Windsor, I suddenly spied the Royal Procession in the distance. At last, the Queen! I fizzed with excitement. Who doesn’t love Her Majesty? And the Duchess of Cambridge! What would she wear?
The regal landaus rolled into view, the horses glossy and tossing their manes, the coachmen and footmen splendid in red and gold. I’ve always said few things are more magnificent than England’s equestrian pageantry. Wait—that’s not Her Majesty! It was Prince Charles and the Duchess of Cornwall. Perfectly nice, but where is the Anglophile’s favorite granny? Alas, age respects not a crown, and the Queen was suffering from “mobility issues.” This would turn out to be the only Royal Meeting Her Majesty missed in the entirety of her reign. She had horses running too! We suppressed our concerns and turned back to the action.
We stayed for six races, all run on turf, and took a walk past the Parade Ring to see the jockeys in bright silks, astride their sleek mounts. Lavell’s Old Etonian friend, the lovely fellow who enabled the day’s pleasures, expertly walked us through the racing form. His advice seemed sound, and Lavell, ever up for a flutter, jogged keenly to the betting windows. At the end of the day’s action, she left the track sufficiently wedged up to stand us a fine dinner back in London.
On Friday, in the interest of journalistic inclusiveness (and late in requesting guest badges for our friends), we sat in the Queen Anne Enclosure. The delightful team from Quintessentially, a luxury lifestyle management and concierge firm, had also planned something special for us: they swung us an invite to the owners’ and trainers’ picnic in the car park. Count on them to arrange a one-of-a-kind experience.
On Friday, in the interest of journalistic inclusiveness (and late in requesting guest badges for our friends), we sat in the Queen Anne Enclosure. The delightful team from Quintessentially, a luxury lifestyle management and concierge firm, had also planned something special for us: they swung us an invite to the owners’ and trainers’ picnic in the car park. Count on them to arrange a one-of-a-kind experience.
In the shade of a soaring oak, Lavell and I met up with Quintessentially’s CEO Darren Ellis, U.S. head Lauren Wilt, and Catherine Mills, their doyenne of all things equestrian. A table tantalized with a variety of rosé wines and to my palate, those most English of dainties—tiny Scotch eggs and hardboiled quail’s eggs with sea salt. A stately marchioness, the first I’d ever spotted in the wild, offered me a bite-sized sausage roll from a silver tray. It was such fun chatting that we very nearly missed the Royal Procession.
The Queen Anne Enclosure did not disappoint. The crowd skewed younger than in the Royal Enclosure, but the racegoers were elegant, with most gentlemen wearing top hats. We staked out a table under an awning and ate pizza with champagne, trotting back and forth to place our bets and watch the races. It was a wonderful party, and with an Ascot-worthy chapeau atop my tiny head, all was as it should be.
By the time we called it a day, it was nearly 11 p.m. What should have been a £20* cab ride to Richmond was now on offer for £150. Step aside, my too-gentle English friends, I said. I haggled, not to say wrestled, the driver down to £100. Fair play to all, as they say on the turf. And so, I am satisfied. The experience surpassed the Anglophile’s fantasy. I leave you with one warning, my fellow Americans, to avoid the pained wince of refined British disapproval. It’s pronounced AScut.
*£1 =$1.25