I. Who I am
Twenty years riding to hounds. Twenty more walking every jumps course in Britain and Ireland.
Cavalry first, then twenty seasons in the hunting field across three counties. You learn a great deal about a horse from the back of one, going into a blackthorn hedge on a wet January afternoon. Chiefly, you learn which ones want to jump and which ones are merely being asked to.
When the knees gave out I took to walking the courses instead. Every jumps track in Britain and Ireland, most of them twice, a good many of them in sideways rain. Where the ground holds and where it drains. Which uphill finishes find out the horses that have been kidding. Which fences catch the careless.
“A horse that does not jump well does not win on soft ground in November.”
I write it down now because a chap in the bar at a winter meeting asked me to, and I found I rather liked being held to it. Every selection goes out before the first race, in writing, with the reason attached and the price I want.
What I will not do: tip on the Flat, pad the card to look busy, or pretend a horse is better than it is. When the jumps racing that day is not worth the name, you get two lines telling you so, and your money stays in your pocket. That is not a failure of duty. That is the duty.