”Let’s go to the races”, I suggested.
We wern`t dressed for Ascot. Isobel hatless in a denim dress and Ted in the Prince of Wales check he uses for most things, the trousers more than the jacket. Even so, when we`d driven up the impressive tree lined avenue to the delapidated members` grandstand, we felt over dressed. The place has the air of a Dolce Vita lost. And there were no colourful bookies.
”What’s that?” exclaimed Isobel, beverage in hand, clamping eyes on a large ungainly equine paraded in a paddock. A British Shire, available for stud, according to the pamphlet: and a cursory glance at its rear end was enough to confirm that potential. Whether naming a stallion ”Julie” affects its ability, I am not qualified to say. It would do strange things to some men I know.
We soon lost interest in the racing but there were alternatives. For example, the star display rider who failed several attempts to coax his horse over a massive jump almost from a standstill. Despite a lot of kicking and shouting, the horse showed commendable good sense and the crowd warmly applauded each refusal. And the Native North Americans, originally from somewhere near Warsaw, who taught dance routines in their camp of assorted wigwams, kept our attention for a good long time.
Though not Ascot, all this plus waffles, hotdogs, beer and ice cream, which were readily available, and a stall selling manic sunflower-shaped garden sprays, made for an enjoyable day at Wyscigi, which I heartily recommend.