In praise of small racecourses

Mrs Oakley not being a turfista, she rarely joins me on a racecourse expedition. But before we had a dog there used to be one exception. When I was headed for Stratford-upon-Avon we would make a weekend of it. Mrs Oakley would take in a matinee at the Royal Shakespeare Company, I would go racing and we would regroup for dinner. If I had enjoyed a successful day we would upgrade the dinner and the bottle which accompanied it. Had she been with me last Saturday it would have been a very good bottle.

Cheltenham it isn’t, but the Stratford track, not far from Anne Hathaway’s cottage, is what the bard might have called a comely little wench of a racecourse. Despite threatening weather and major roadworks nearby, a decent crowd who felt like sturdy regulars had a cracking day’s sport: the first three races were won by a head, one length and half a length.