Our columnist on what what helps transform Doncaster at the Betfred St Leger Festival.
Town Moor is stark, monochrome against the drab grey backdrop, a dull drizzle misting the glass. The attributes that cause Doncaster to be a true gallopers’ track - the sweeping left-handed bend, the flat mile straight – make it an attritional test, with all four seasons to be enjoyed in one sitting.
The area of the racecourse was gifted to the town corporation by Henry VIII in the 16th century and racing has been a constant presence since – although I’m not convinced the Hilton was included in the deal. For a writer attempting to bring a racecourse to life, Doncaster can be the doldrums of creativity with a keen north wind blowing away any semblance of originality. They say winter comes in on the tail of the last horse in the St Leger, and you’d believe it as you’re sat shivering in your puffer jacket.
Even the marketing for the Betfred St Leger Festival feels like it has been thought up by a grizzled Yorkshireman, propping up the bar in his local working man’s club.
“How do you think we should sell the St Leger Festival to the public, Geoff?”
A prolonged pause, as he sups on a pint and ponders.
“It’s a reyt good day out.”
But like an aged television which turns from monochrome to colour pictures by fiddling with the aerial and a few well-timed slaps to the top of the set, Doncaster comes to life as the gates open.
It’s the people that make the St Leger Festival unique, with their inimitable turn of phrase, acute observations and desperate need to get absolutely bladdered.
From the start, you’re thrust into a glorious maelstrom of delight and description. I’m forced to justify the admission of my lemon drizzle muffin to the security guards on the first morning, having already been through the turnstiles and returned to the car for it – deemed highly suspicious activity. But you know the age-old saying, never leave a good muffin behind.
For those upright enough to make it to the pre-parade after enjoying the 50% off all drinks in the first hour of opening, the proximity of the horses delights and astounds. Doncaster provides superb viewing for anyone wanting to marvel at the racehorse, with deckchairs and inflatable cushions ideal for the mid-afternoon slump. Weathered experts stand shoulder to shoulder with champagne aficionados and the associated commentary is an eclectic mix of hard-earned knowledge and simple appreciation.
The runners make the leisurely walk from the pre-parade to the paddock, past the Grade II Listed grandstand that ARC are unable to renovate or knock down, complete with an over-flow pressroom in the cellar for the miscreant gravy train-ers. The horses are met with a wall of sound and sea of white picnic tables, with the inexperienced juvenile often astounded by the sight of a vocal Northern crowd. These Southern horses, they make nowt into owt.
There’s an opportunity for a drink and a portion of loaded fries – when did we start ladening our chips? – as the horses travel to post, cantering away from the crescendo of noise into the still quiet at the end of the straight, with the stands only a blurred outline of buildings in the middle-distance. A few hurried minutes pass as the horses load into the stalls and they’re off and racing, accompanied by the raucous cheers of the crowd. The volume swells as the field reach the furlong-marker and the result suddenly doesn’t matter, everyone is simply living the moment.
In 1600, racing at Doncaster ceased for 14 years. A report advised the events had ‘stirred up…quarrels and other inconveniences’ and an abolition of the races would prevent ‘sutes, quarrels, murders and bloodsheds’.
They were wrong, in hindsight.
No-one has murdered anyone and we’ve all had a reyt good time.
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