Bishopthorpe in Ascot at York

I went to the races today. I’ve never been before. I really, really enjoyed myself. I was supposed to scout out the conditions at the rails ahead of the junior school hordes arriving: if the Rails Enclosure were crowded, then they might get a better view of everything from outside the rails.

I walked up from the village at about 11:40. The sky was very grey, low and occasionally leaking. The village itself was quiet, and apart from a few bored policemen and women dotted about, so were the roads. Only the sky was busy, though I never saw more than three helicopters at once. There was a waterproofed press photographer outside Bishopthorpe Palace (he’d already been there more than an hour) and small but growing clumps of locals, mostly women with umbrellas, on the pavement opposite. The infants were due later. Between the Palace and the Crem, there was another gaggle of three old ladies on the verge, with garden chairs, raincoats and plastic rainhats. I wished I had my camera, but Romy had it at school.

A policeman or woman was stationed every fifty yards or so, but very little traffic. As I crossed the bridge over the A64 a convoy of cars, flanked by blue-lighted outriders passed me towards the Palace. One, a dark L-reg Jag or Rover, contained a friendly-looking old lady in pink who gestured excitedly at something through the window (I don’t think t’was me).

I clambered down the embankment from the bridge towards the 7 furlong start, and walked outside the rails towards the grandstand; then backtracked and crossed over to the Rails enclosure. Packed? It was almost empty. So I went to along by Car Park B towards Sim Balk Lane. The car park portable loos were out of action – no generator had arrived – but the two loo-keeper guys had nothing to write a sign with, so frustrated posh-frocked ladies kept trying the door-handles. These loo guys were hiding. There were plenty of bushes.

Everyone but everyone was incredibly relaxed and friendly, picnicking in the car park under gazebos or in their cars in the intermittent rain, some really quite elaborately; one table had a mini-candelabra. It was quite dark under those skies. I asked a passing motorcycle copper if he’d seen a large party of schoolchildren. Oh yes he said, they’re not far behind. I bumped into him again later, he lives in Copmanthorpe, but with a daughter at our Infants’ School; his wife was helping with the Palace outing.

And so I met them, the first of 175 children – and nearly 50 adults in orange vests (thanks to Stewart at Jarvis) – “walking” alongside the cars trying to get to the parking areas.

The children waved and called to the posh folks with their hampers, and the picnickers, who’d no doubt opened their champagne hours earlier, waved and yelled back. Everyone was smiling despite the still miserable weather.

We corralled the children on and into the enclosure and they found a long stretch of fence. They cheered anything that moved, and at least one grizzle-haired main in a BBC OB Range Rover waved regally as he passed. There were loos a-plenty, bars, and hog-roast/burger/chicken stalls too, though the kids were having none of that (I had a mammoth bacon buttie for £3). There was also a huge TV screen the size of a house-wall just by us in the corner.

And there was the long line of bookies. Romy and a friend had already placed a bet on a horse each, so I put a few quid on another horse at random: Red Clubs, at 9-2 to win.

The royal procession appeared on cue, at first on the big screen, then we could see the horses and plumed riders heading our way, and then they passed us: the Queen and Duke, Charles and Camilla, and two more Landaus carrying unidentifiable Royals. The kids cheered them all, and the Royals waved and smiled back. Regally.

The children were to head back to school after the first race, but there was more excitement when a colt broke free from the start, thundered past us and galloped a long way round the track on his own before he was caught. And the sun came out for a moment.

The race itself was an anti-climax really. Well it would have been, but my horse won!

And I’m going again on Saturday…