It's cold, and it's a Monday, but at least the racing is going to happen. On the previous day, Norfolk (UK) had six hours of persistent rain, and even here on this small ridge that rises on just about the most northern part of Norfolk, the ground is heavy. The clerk of the course, though, has walked it and declared that racing can go ahead - but the few of us here know that the final turn is going to be a test.

This is as it should be. Horse-racing in December (or January or February) tends to be a hit and miss affair (real horse-racing, that is, not that apology that takes place on 'all-weather' tracks). Meetings do get cancelled, but the die-hards who attend meetings like this get excited when the news from the track is good; severely depressed when it isn't.

The horses of course have already travelled here, before any announcements are made. Some have come a long way (always worth checking the ones that have; the length of the journey may say something about the confidence of their owners). One of the horses in the first has come up from Wales, but surely more in hope than in expectation?

Fakenham is only ten miles from the sea. North of that, there's not much between here and the polar ice, so when the wind swings round from that direction, it tends to be cold, and the wind here today is icy, the same wind that brought the Vikings here a thousand and more years ago. We stamp our feet while we wait for the first horses to emerge for the 12.30, the first race of the day.

Time to get a coffee and look about us. About three hundred hardy souls have ventured out today. More are lunching in the stand, where the racing they see will be from behind glass. We're one enclosure down from the most expensive (The Grandstand) and one up from the cheapest. But we get the best of both worlds here; a grandstand to climb into which will take the worst of the wind, and access to the parade ring, where those who know about horses (or pretend they do) will assess the chances of the runners. Also, if you like that kind of thing, the potential to stand a few feet from one of the chase fences, and watch half a ton of horse leaping the brush. Last year, Sam Thomas was majestic here (ironic, now that the young jockey has been taken off champion trainer Paul Nicholls's best, after a bad run of form).

Who's here? Mostly its people like us, taking a day off to watch horses race and jump, which is more of a spectacle than it seems on TV and - close up - a sight of rare beauty (remind me that I said that when I've described the second race). Most people are dressed in parkas, woolly hats, scarves - the sort of thing they'd wear for Firework Night or a football game.

But there's a small sprinkling of the county set too. Their distinguishing mark is tweed. Dun-coloured tweed, expansively tailored, which they wear in layers. Coats, jackets, caps, skirts, trousers - are all tweed. Sometimes the tweed is yellower, sometimes browner, but it's all expensive, with brass or leather details and with huge pockets (country sports all require the carrying of many different items, not least a small bottle of whisky on occasions like this). The tweed is worn with boots, boots you can see your face in, or would have done this morning when someone (and I suspect not their wearer) gave them the spit-and-polish treatment. When the racing is over this evening, they'll no doubt gather to discuss the day's events over a glass or two in a stone-clad hall. Some already bear the marks of an alarming port habit - paid for perhaps by the inheritance of many, many serried acres. But dukes stand next to used-car salesmen at events like this, and the horses give them a common language. Racing people are the most polite I've come across.

A couple of horses come out and begin shambling around the paddock. They look cold, and I don't fancy their chances. A hunter arrives just outside the ring on the course with a well-built woman in the saddle. Her mount doesn't look cold and seems positively alert, but sadly her task is simply to take the runners down to the starting line, rather than to compete. Her mount would be carrying a bit of weight, I suppose, but still.

More runners emerge. Then the jockeys, looking small and wiry, and cold. Who'd have their job on a day like today? There's some banter and then we all scurry off to place our bets. My money is taken rather calmly by the bookie on the rails, not that it's a lot, but I'd rather he looked as though I might have a chance. I am going with the bet of the moment, a horse called Bosamcliff which opened at 12-1 and has come in to 6-1. As far as I can see, it's got nothing going for it, except that it won a race about six months before on heavy ground. Someone must know something.

Unfortunately, the someone is quickly revealed to know just as much as I do. Bosamcliff doesn't look as though it likes jumping the moderate hurdles in front of it, and on the second circuit, it looks distinctly bored. The horse that isn't bored is the horse that's come up from Wales, the long-distance traveller, Sydney Sling, which romps in by 16 lengths. We tear up our betting slips and try to look as though we knew it all along. Never mind, there is a short-priced favourite in the next and, as the man on my left says, 'This is a favourites track'. He tells me this through a large mouthful of hot pork in a bap.

The horse in question starts at ridiculous odds, seven to four on or something, (which means that if you bet seven, you'll get four plus your stake back), but a win is a win, and the horse starts out as though it means it. 'Jumping like a stag', the man on my left says smugly, studying it closely through binoculars.

No one has told the horse that this is a favourites track though, and at the five-foot fence directly in front of the stands it slows for a good look, gets in too tight and then leaps extravagantly through the top of the fence, coming down in a heap on the other side and throwing his jockey a good distance. We gasp. The bookies grin. The man on my left disappears to the bar. I am tempted to do the same. My confidence is shaken. There are short-priced favourites in the next three, and they all win. None of them has my money on board.

By the time the last comes round, it's time for the only certainty at Fakenham racecourse, the quality of the lunch available in the shed known as Willie Weston's Seafood Bar. Fortunately too, they have some good value and very cold white wine, which certainly takes the edge off any disappointment. Someone goes to place a bet and I give him some money. There are ten horses in the race, and I am backing three of them, just to make a point that I can place a winning bet. The white wine is excellent, so too is the fish chowder and the smoked haddock quiche. When the horses come by, they are being led by a 150-1 outsider. I go back to the wine.

On the last corner, the horses of any quality in the race manage just to get by the one that started at odds so long I wonder that it has four legs. I have a winner at last. I can go home happy and think about the ones that got away.

END

(c) Blakeney 7 December 2008

Report from racing at Fakenham (UK), 1 December 2008. There's more from Blakeney here - A Day At The Races

Fringe Report (c) Fringe Report 2002-2012

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