CHELTENHAM

AFTER LAST YEAR’S VISIT TO ROYAL ASCOT, EQUESTRIAN LIVING’S ROVING ANGLOPHILE EDITOR GOES TO THE CHELTENHAM RACES.

BY REBECCA BALDRIDGE

A PERSONAL TRAVEL DIARY

Beneath the leaden Gloucestershire sky, a pullulating mass of tweed confirmed that I was nearing the entrance to the Cheltenham Racecourse. It was Day Two of the Cheltenham Festival, the National Hunt equivalent of Ascot, and the mid-March weather was as to be expected. At each step, a fine mist assaulted my trilby, and viscous mud squelched under my Penelope Chilvers boots. But no matter how unwelcoming the damp English climate, it was no match for my joy.

Then known as the Grand National Hunt Meeting, the Cheltenham Festival was established in 1860 and moved to its present home at Prestbury Park in Cheltenham in 1911. The festival runs Tuesday through Friday every March, typically coinciding with St. Patrick’s Day, and draws lovers of jump racing from all over the United Kingdom and Ireland. The prize money is second only to the Grand National, and the festival culminates with the renowned Gold Cup on Friday. The traditional racegoers’ attire is tweed, complemented by Barbour, and, of course, extravagant headgear for the ladies and flat caps for the gents. Given the footing, stout boots are the order of the day.

My jump racing adventure was to extend over two days, so Wednesday was mainly a scouting mission. Thursday promised to be the big day at the Horseshoe Pavilion restaurant, courtesy of Great British Racing. Today, before the appearance of my adult chaperone, I could indulge my enthusiasm without restraint. I made for the Best Mate Enclosure. It might be the cheapest ticket, but it was closest to the track. Elbowing through the boisterous masses, I drew up to the rail, dabbing ineffectually at my disturbingly beer-sodden sleeve. From my vantage just past the final jump, I thrilled at the horses thundering down the home stretch from my vantage point just past the final jump. Sadly, even this spectacle was insufficient to ward off the rising damp.

Circumstances demanded a streaming cuppa char and a bit of shopping. Cheltenham’s Shopping Village is a dream come true for the acquisitively minded, surpassing even the Hampton Classic in its bounty. Equestrian art, jewelry, hats, tweeds, Barbours, boots—you name it, you’ll find it. One stall was solely devoted to hat trimmings! I glided away with a clutch of pheasant feathers affixed to my trilby. My magpie eye alighted upon something sparkly; a silver snaffle-bit necklace soon enhanced my countrywoman ensemble. My further progress came to a screeching halt in front of Stevenson Brothers Rocking Horses. A handsome gallant bobbed gently on a wooden bay. “Keep those heels down; who taught you to ride?”

He laughed, dismounting, and I took his place. The ride was smooth and peculiarly hypnotic. As we chatted, he admitted that he was not a rider, but “his partner was a professional.” I clocked a photo of Charlotte Dujardin with her own Stevenson Brothers Valegro, and the pieces fell into place. “YOU’RE CARL HESTER’S BOYFRIEND! YOU KNOW BLUEBERRY.” (For those of you who don’t follow grand prix Dressage, Blueberry is the barn name of world champion and Olympic gold medalist Valegro).

The furor attracted one of the Messrs. Stevenson, and he explained that Stevenson rocking horses are not for children (as evinced by a price north of £5000) and are practical as well as exquisite. He noted that he took his morning exercise on one of his mounts. “It’s good for the back.” Her late Majesty also owned a Stevenson rocking horse. I wondered aloud whether she rode it. “I can’t say, but she did mention that the gait is very smooth.”

In my excitement, I had lost track of time. London Boy (LB), my responsible adult, was arriving shortly by train, and I could hardly leave him in the lurch. I arrived just as he wafted past the Way Out sign, and we set off for Stow-on-the-Wold’s Stag Inn. Hotel rooms in Cheltenham come at a premium during the festival, demanding a willingness to book months in advance and part with a goodly sum. It’s less of an insult, and infinitely more fun, to overnight in one of the impossibly charming Cotswold villages nearby.

To the right: The author, Rebecca Baldridge, outfitted by the Cotswold Hat Club.

Although not so far as the crow flies, Stow is a full 40-minute drive down narrow country roads through a designated Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty. Sheep bleat and lambs gambol in rolling green meadows while cunning cottages made from local limestone gleam golden even on the dreariest days. London Boy is particularly taken with The Stag, meaning we linger longer than we should over a full English. I’m almost late for my appointment with Rachel Hawkins, proprietress of The Cotswold Hat Club. Given my history of misadventures involving hats and horses, she agreed to deliver my hired chapeau and anchor it in place personally. I set off for the track confident that my magnificent green top- per would survive the rigors of the day.

St. Patrick’s Thursday is tremendously popular, with crowds twice the size of Wednesday.
It appeared that half of Ireland had arrived, and shamrock green vied for dominance with earth-toned tweed. Paddy Power, an Irish gaming company known for cheeky marketing, distributed bright green underpants (Y-fronts in the local parlance), which the early drinkers enthusiastically donned over their trousers. London Boy, ever urbane, politely declined the colorful offer. Through the kindness of friends at the luxury lifestyle company Quintessentially, I was introduced to Minty Farquhar of Great British Racing, the official marketing and promotional body for horse racing in the United Kingdom. She had planned a spectacular day for us, beginning with a special invitation from Tattersall’s. We piled into a forest green Bentley SUV, the official luxury car of the Cheltenham Festival, and headed toward the stables. After coffee and “second breakfast” courtesy of Tattersall’s hospitality, we enjoyed a private showing of Thoroughbreds to be auctioned after the day’s racing. London Boy knows the drill; it wasn’t his first rodeo. He waited, Zen-like, while I exclaimed over each horse as though it were the first Thoroughbred I’d ever seen. Some things never get old.

With the viewing over, it was time for the races. I insisted we start in the Best Mates enclosure, but I’m not entirely heartless. It was raining again, and the long-suffering LB, stoic though he might be, deserved an indulgence. I suggested a trip to the Guinness Village; beer always puts a spring in his step, and the English start early. Not surprisingly, it was heaving with raucous English and Irish men, a fair number sporting the green underpants. Lover of English customs I may be, but I prefer my pints taken from the seated position. Turnabout is fair play, though, and God knows LB, a thoroughly urban creature, has braved inclement weather and muddy stable yards on my behalf more times than I can count.

To the left: Olympian Zara Philips models the perfect updo to complement her hat.

We rejoined in the Horseshoe Pavilion. It was warm, TV screens relayed the rac- ing, and an open bar beckoned. Bliss. Minty introduced us to GBR’s other guests. Straightaway, we hit it off with Doug and Lucy Proctor, owners of the Glanville Stud in Dorset. On Tuesday, Honeysuckle, a mare they had bred, retired from her jump racing career with an emotional win in the Close Brothers Mares’ Hurdle. Honeysuckle was ridden by Rachael Blackmore, MBE, an Irish jockey and the first woman to win the Grand National in 2021. Her ride in the Ryanair Chase later in the day ended in another victory, as I had anticipated.

The Horseshoe Pavilion is one of several restaurants at the track, and racegoers willing to part with £695 enjoy all-enclosure access, a champagne reception, a four-course luncheon, afternoon tea, an open bar, TV coverage, and a betting service. A soupçon of guilt nagged at me. Were I a true devotee, I’d be at the rail, rain and beer-sodden crowds be damned. But the siren call of bottomless champagne, good company, and concern for Rachel’s glorious hat, won the day. I turned to LB and gestured to a blonde woman standing with her back to us. “Look at her hair!” I exclaimed enviously. “That’s the best hat hair I’ve ever seen!” A mass of blonde curls was pinned into an elaborate chignon under her pert wine-colored hat. She turned. It was Zara Philips. Of course, it was.

Between Minty and the Proctors, I was getting properly schooled in the finer points of jump racing. Aside from several trips to the Parade Ring to see the competitors up close, we remained in the Horseshoe Pavilion until the racing was over and it was time for the Tattersall’s auction. Doug and Lucy accompanied us to the ring, offering lively commentary on each horse in turn.

As the auction finished, we bade farewell to our new friends and struck out for the enormous and unpaved car park. Our perfect day of racing devolved into a 30-minute slog through muddy fields, searching for the nondescript A class whose number plate I had failed to note. Another horror awaited. Just outside Toddington, our front wheels encountered the largest pothole this side of the BQE. Inevitably, we had a puncture. I am sad to say there is no Uber in the Cotswolds. With no advance booking, no taxi was forthcoming. The savvy traveler will heed my warning. Book your transportation in advance. Do not drive to the track. Freed from onerous responsibility, you can drink, be merry, and enjoy some of the best jump racing in England.

To read the entire January/February issue click here. To read more of EQ Living’s travel features click here. The 2024 Cheltenham Festival will take place from March 12-15 and you can learn more here.