Up the hill

This year, for some reason, perhaps no more than wanting to prove to myself that I could still do it, I was moved to go up to the hill to see the Derby, the hill, being free to all comers, being the place for those who want neither to pay grandstand prices nor to splash out on grandstand clothes. Some large part of the dark green area in the middle of the map above. Which sometimes includes a large tent erected for the convenience of members of the Household Division. Accessed via a tunnel under the course itself.

The Google view of roughly the same area. Their aeroplane must have passed over on a quiet day. The hill being the chunk lower middle labelled 'Google'.

In the olden days, proceedings would have opened at the Marquis of Granby at 08:00 with the gathering of the bookies from up north on their busman's holidays, but on this occasion I was just passing through, to catch the first top hat of the day amidst the stalls of the Saturday market.

The plan at this point was to head for the Ye Olde Kings Head, one of the way stations of old, the last before heading up the hill, but I had forgotten that it was in Church Street, rather than Ashley Road, so I missed it. Maybe just as well, in the sense that if I had called in, I might well have got no further.

Fairly quickly spotted the first Roller of the day. Possibly a Bentley, not being able to tell the difference at a glance.

Then the Wellingtonia, already noticed at reference 1.

Then the first stretch limo, driven by a cheerful young man who explained that he had come from the not very far away Kingston.

Several buses from Edward Thomas, the people operating out of a yard in the Chessington Road which I pass on the homeward leg of my spins around Jubilee Way. I think they also do quite a lot of school work.

Not many walkers. In fact, both walkers and cars much thinned out from the old days of, say, twenty five years ago.

Having got to the top, with just a few pauses to catch my breath, the first call was the Derby Arms, the back bar of which used to stink of wet hay on race days. And there were usually horses, and perhaps buggies, parked up outside. Not any more though, now entirely respectable, although still open to casual drinkers who were not taking luncheon. Providing only that they did not mind paying for their drinks before they were delivered.

So plenty of cheerful custom, plenty of fancy dress for both men and women. Some mutton dressed as lamb. Some ladies better at handling their fancy dresses than others. After all of which I remembered about my own racing jacket, a natty affair in striped crimplene, a snip from the once esteemed Lester Bowden. As it was, I had a light rain coat against the threatened rain - which can be heavy, up on the Downs, late on a summer afternoon. In the event, unnecessary. 

Unlike on the occasion noticed at reference 2, I was actually going to make it onto the hill on this occasion, and so on leaving the Derby Arms, headed for the tunnel. Which was quiet, not the sea of busy people that it used to be in years gone by. But we did have a couple of cheerful young ladies in red uniforms, on their way to sell cigars in the grand stand, in much the same way as girls used to sell ice cream and cigarettes in cinemas. We also had a posse of cheerful security types checking our bags.  

The snap above being the view west on exit from the tunnel, top right. Not exactly heaving, but it is early, with well over an hour to go for the first race. For some reason, all the barriers, and there must have been thousands of them, looked brand new. Never been out before.

The race card, a fiver rather than the pound or so they used be. Rather more pictures too. But there was no sign of Trainer Toller, from Newmarket, who used to put in an appearance. Probably some kind of cousin, although I have probably left it too late to investigate.

While Google turned up this snap of him. Reasonably sure that it is the right person, although I have yet to discern a family resemblance.

It may not have been heaving, but the Booster was getting busy. The sort of ride that I would go to some lengths to avoid. Not at all sure what would happen if I was forced on for some reason: pass out, heart attack or worse? As the sort of person who might need one, it has always struck me as odd that these rides don't come with panic buttons. I suppose the answer must be that people do know what they are good for. And the people who aren't good for the ride don't take it.

So heading the other way, I took up station on one of the benches in front of a bar caravan, operated I now know from my credit card bill, by Polar Events of reference 3. From what little I saw of it, a slick and well set-up operation which was going to be able to take the strain later in the day. A bar at around neck height, so one was not going to jump it. A lager bar really, no warm beer and no wine by the glass. But they could do tins.

Which looked very small, but when you did the sums, four of them amounted to a bottle. Went down better than one might think. From the people at reference 4.

The bar was not particularly busy at this point, but there were at least two parties of young people who were already well underway, both mixed parties, not just some crew from the boozer, with some rather boisterous humour on display. One wondered what they would be like by the middle of the afternoon. Security kept a discrete eye on them, while I thought it best to keep my head down.

At which point, I thought it was time to be heading back down again, while the going was good. Lots of fancy dress by this time in and around the entrance to the Queens's Stand. There was quite a breeze and I thought that some of the ladies were going to get a bit cold, until, that is, they had got a bit of alcohol on board. From there, down Chalk Lane, acquiring a useful bit of reinforcing bar on the way. The security people did not seem in the least interested in my walking off with it. While carrying it, I was made very aware of the point of the sort of heavy spear the Romans called the hasta, as opposed that is to the pilum, aka javelin. You might only get one go before your opponent closed with you, but if you got him first he would stand no chance.

Notwithstanding which, a lot of the northern peoples favoured the battle axe. Much more manly than this long range stuff.

Plenty of cheerful people coming up Chalk Lane, confident that they would make it for the second or third race. No problem about the big race. A couple of very young ladies selling cookies and lemonade off a small table at the bottom of the lane, the sort of thing you used to get a lot of on the way up. They did admit, slightly sheepishly, than Mum had made the cookies. Of which I bought three.

A different sort of horsey people, in the paddocks by what used to be the Durdans, once complete with bat infested indoor riding school, now some kind of business centre. Not only that, the horsey people seem to be very casually dressed: no riding crops, boots, tweeds or jodhpurs that I could see at all.

The once rather grand and pretentious Chalk Lane Hotel appeared to be under the scaffolders for a refurbishment. We did eat there a couple of times, but I remember today the day that we turned up in the middle of the afternoon and asked for tea. Which was not the sort of thing that they did at all. 

On the upside, the Grumpy Mole, once the Amato (for a Derby winner), was still open and seemed happy enough to serve me, even though they were in clearing up mode. Even though there was no question of one or more of the excellent ham rolls I had been served with on a previous Derby Day. Full on meal or nothing. With the the bar in the bar being snapped above.

Memory fails again. I had been very sure that the restaurant had been to the left in the snap above, while now it is in a rather handsome extension to the right. The staff denied any knowledge of restaurant to the left.

On the other hand, they could tell me all about the horseshoes nailed up around the bar, one for every Derby winner since a long time ago. All different sizes, although you would not know that from the snap above. Certainly not a shoe worn by the horse in question on the day in question, but a story which is now lost, so perhaps I need to go back there for a repeat performance.

Closed the proceedings with a quick visit to TB, passing a trolley for another day on the way. Reasonably busy this Saturday afternoon. Live music inside, remains of hog roast previously noticed outside, some not very serious looking security people in-between.

Safely home and bar in garage, until it comes in handy for something. The monocular had come in handy for keeping an eye on the contents of the Queen's Stand, although somehow I had missed the Princess Royal, standing in for her mother.

PS: the last time I was sold a cigar off a tray was in the Palm Court in the Waldorf in the Aldwych. At least that is what I think it was called, in any event all very grand. While there was a slightly less grand tray for those who wanted cigarettes.

References

Reference 1: https://psmv5.blogspot.com/2022/06/wellingtonia-79.html.

Reference 2: https://psmv3.blogspot.com/2017/06/derby-near.html. A previous visit to the Derby Arms.

Reference 3: https://www.polar-events.co.uk/.

Reference 4: https://nice-drinks.co.uk/.

Reference 5: https://www.skysports.com/racing/news/12426/9976114/james-toller-relief-at-retirement-decision. 'Irish 2,000 Guineas-winning trainer James Toller admitted to feeling relieved after confirming his intention to quit the training ranks at the end of the season...'.