How can you even start to write about horse-racing without talking about Jeffrey Bernard? Bernard (1932-1997), who turned his hand to a lot of things when he came to Soho (London) as a young man (stage hand, artist's model, boxer) was probably killed by his interest in horses. It gave him an income, you see. It was when a friend of his suggested that he 'try journalism', that he started writing about horse racing for Queen magazine (Twiggy on the cover; Bernard somewhere around page 150, in company with the restrictive undergarments).

From there, having found that he could (a) write quite well about horses and horse-racing folk, and (b) that in general he liked them, Bernard's career went into a tail-spin of success, if such a thing is possible. 'This is a man', a hospital doctor explained to some trainees much later, 'who opens his veins in the morning with ten cigarettes, and closes them again at lunchtime with half a bottle of vodka.'

And it was horse-racing that made it all possible. From those exalted beginnings on Queen, to getting sacked (how many times exactly?) by the Sporting Life, to plumbing the depths as a contributor to the Spectator - or perhaps as Colonel Mad, for Private Eye - the sun comes out brightly (but more and more infrequently) on a career which plunged as gloriously downhill as runners into the dip at Newmarket.

In those days, Bernard and his pals used to repair from the Coach & Horses to Paddington for the special train to Cheltenham and the Festival (the most important days of the year for jump racing) - buoyed up by Bollinger, desperately chatting up the waitresses in the buffet car in the hope of a knee-trembler in the lavs. Did it ever happen? We can only speculate.

There are sadly no specials to Cheltenham any more; fortunately it's still easy to reach. But it's a particular joy of most good horse-race meetings that they are accessible by train, which in turn means that drink - especially should one have a bit of luck early in the day - can be consumed copiously. Wincanton, I believe, offers the best value to be had on a bottle of champagne at a racecourse, at something around the £25 mark. That is likely to be the only piece of really practical advice to be found here.

Inevitably, drink can lead to other problems. Jeffrey Bernard once went to sleep under a tree at Ascot. His 17-1 shot had come home earlier in the day with fifty of his notes on board, with consequences. Awakening in the near darkness, he did the only thing he could; to stumble off toward the dying sounds of merriment coming from the last bar on the course to close. There, of course, he was treated like royalty, bought more champagne, and finally offered a lift home in a chauffeured limousine.

And there you have one of the key reasons for the attractiveness of racing. Perhaps with all those losing bets, people learn humility, or the true value of money, or some other wisdom. For whatever reason, generally they are incredibly nice. Certainly they are much, much to be preferred to people at any other kind of sporting event.

Racing can be confusing. Like a lot of other sports, it surrounds itself with jargon. The difference with racing is that people will fall over themselves to be helpful. Go up to the paddock at Sandown or Towcester. Lean casually on the rail and, with your racecard in hand and a slightly confused expression on your face, ask your neighbour what he or she might fancy in the next. The chances are that you'll provoke a frank discussion which will end up involving all the people round you. The discussion may well continue through and after the race, in the bar. I know of people who are happily married as a result of such a debate.

Horse racing is like sex, but only in that your first experience may define how you see it forever. Go for the first time to the Royal Enclosure at Ascot, and your abiding memories may simply be of hats. You may also decide, on the strength of that experience, to join the Communist Party. Go to Fakenham in December, and you may feel that racing has a lot in common with Captain Scott (1868-1912) and the race to the Pole. Both have their attractions, but both need to be carefully handled as part of your introduction to the sport. My own experience, for what it's worth, was being taken to Downpatrick in Northern Ireland by a bloke I knew at university whose nickname was Poker. I arrived at the course with about ten pounds. I left unsteadily several hours later, afloat on a sea of stout, still with ten pounds, and with a lot of new friends, including a girl called Deirdre. I was 18.

Of course, there are many reasons why people don't like racing. It's probably true that there's too much of it, and not every track is beautiful, capable of catering for everyone, or easy to get into and out of. If you go with an expectation to come home having relieved the bookies of the contents of their satchels, you will probably be disappointed. It may well rain, and you will be - mostly - out in the open. You will probably spend more money than you should. Lucky heather, sold by gypsies on Epsom Downs, can't always be guaranteed to work.

But for me what makes it beautiful are the people and the horses. And the marvellous frisson of pitting your knowledge against the rest of the world - in the shape of the betting market. That, and a drink or two. But you can go racing - I know people who do - without gambling and without drinking, and yes, they still enjoy it. Why? Imagine it's a sunny afternoon in June at Goodwood. You've just arrived and made your way up to the top of the Grandstand. You inhale the freshest country air, wafted off the sea a couple of miles away. In front of you, beyond the neat track marked out with its white rails, are the rolling hills of Sussex. There's not a house to be seen. Behind you, when you turn around to see who's talking up the chances of the favourite in the second race, you can see the Isle of Wight, spread out like a map, a greeny-grey mass in a sparkling sea. Just then, the horses emerge for the first, cantering down the track in front of you. The jockeys, standing in the stirrups, are almost motionless as they guide their mounts carefully down toward the start. What colours does the favourite carry? The blue and gold hoops? The pink stars on black?

Subconsciously, you may well be asking yourself quite how the grass is so green here, or speculating about a lady a few yards away in a stunning silk dress. Daughter of a duke? A receptionist from one of the hotels in Chichester, whose cathedral spire you can see in the distance? Meanwhile, a middle-aged man in a felt hat has appeared with a friend next to you, and they both have glasses of wine in their hands, which seems like a good idea. Should you drift over to the bar? No. Because you can hear the voice of the commentator saying that the horses are loaded into the stalls, ready for the start. And they're off. You can see them in detail on the big screen, and you can see them away across the Downs, the distant procession being led by a rider in a purple jacket. You look down at your racecard to see what colours your chosen mount is carrying, and who is leading.

They're coming around the turn into the straight, which is where the race really starts in earnest. They suddenly break into a wide line across the track. A horse thunders through a gap from the back, the jockey working hard to get every ounce of speed, catching the leader who has edged two lengths clear. They sweep by beneath you, there's a lot of shouting and waving of hats from supporters. At the post, you can't separate them. You look back to the big screen where a replay shows you that the challenger just put his head in front on the line. The two men beside you aren't sure. Blackberry Thunder or Harp of Gold? Harp of Gold, you tell them, by a head, and turn away for the bar.

The flat season is mainly in the summer. The jumping season is mainly in winter. I say mainly because you can see flat racing on all-weather tracks throughout the year, and you can certainly go to jumping events in the summer. To do either though is like having fresh strawberries at Christmas. There's something not quite right about it. Traditionalists know that the last day of the flat comes with the November handicap, and all this stuff about a Winter Derby is pretty much nonsense. You'll soon find out how to read a racecard, and delve into discussions about 'going', left- and right-handed tracks, and whether it's better to be drawn high or low at Musselburgh. If you find out the answer to that last point, please let me know.

And now, the thorniest of issues - what to wear. If you are going jumping in the depths of winter, Barbour do a remarkable range of waterproof clothes; they're expensive and will certainly help to keep out the cold. But anything that you'd pick for a trip on a North Sea trawler will do, especially the sea boots. Ripon or Chepstow in winter aren't going to be a junior version of Chantilly. They'll be cold and wet, and Jimmy Choos probably won't survive. Most flat-racing tracks do have a dress code for the most expensive stands, but it's not too rigorous. That's except Royal Ascot, where (if the duke of wherever nominates you for the Royal Enclosure) men need to wear morning dress, and women spectacular hats.

Jeffrey Bernard being Jeffrey Bernard of course disobeyed every rule and got away with it. During a Royal meeting, he met with a trainer for special insight into the coming races. Having downed several during their discussion, the trainer looked at his watch and said he had to go back to the paddock. Bernard rose from his chair and said that he would come too. He was dressed in a stained blazer, open-necked pink shirt, jeans and desert boots. Realising that Bernard was heading for the Royal zone, the trainer looked at him in horror.

'Where's your hat?' he said.

'What the fuck do I need a hat for?' said Bernard.

'There's the question of Her Majesty' said the trainer. 'If we should bump into her, what would you raise?'

Bernard paused. A hush came over the bar.

'Well, there is the question of my knighthood.'

END

(c) Blakeney 17 July 08

There's more from Blakeney in winter - Racing At Fakenham

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