Over the stable door: Nearly no horse for the course

The last time I took horses to the course was 2002, so my memory of the route was slightly hazy.

Redcar races is situated in the middle of a housing estate, in the middle of a town, in the middle of the Sunderland metropolis. Hardly ideal if you go astray in a large wagon, as I was to find out.

I'd had the foresight to ring the racecourse office for directions to the stable yard. After explaining I was in a horsebox, the receptionist curtly said, "head to the main entrance, it's the only entrance you can go in".

"Have they moved the wagon park then?" I enquired but she had disconnected. I dutifully followed her instructions.

My first problem arose when the busy street suddenly became too narrow for my wagon. Impatient drivers in the long queue behind me tapped their fingers. I weighed up the options and hurriedly managed a nifty seven-point turn in bare minimum room. I drove away relieved to escape. It was then I saw the road sign bent at 45 per cent (obviously obscured from my view) along with the traffic warden stood watching nearby. He shook his head as I mouthed an apology.

After a lengthy detour and a polite conversation with the traffic warden, I finally pulled into the narrow gateway of the racecourse's main entrance. An old Volvo estate was parked on the verge blocking my way, thoughtlessly discarded by a race goer I assumed.

I waited, watching a huddle of sobbing mourners at a graveside in the cemetery next door.

Time was ticking. No one showed up to move the vehicle, so I beeped my horn.

Next minute a white-gowned figure scurried from the graveside and jumped into the Volvo. It was the vicar. The funeral had to be halted until the reverend found a parking spot. I prayed that God might part the road to swallow me up.

I shamefully pulled into the car park. My wagon ramp had a large dent in the middle. I had just ruined someone's memory of a beloved's burial. I'd been led a merry dance by a receptionist who didn't have a clue. I was decidedly stressed and all set to unload the horse amid picnics and gambling punters when a familiar face appeared and thankfully directed me to the actual horsebox park. I doubt that receptionist will forget me in a hurry.

Cubbing is well under way and the hunt had an open day last Sunday at the kennels in Gargrave. The programme included a dog show, terrier racing and produce classes. Mum entered a cake and her three year-old sloe gin in the best hipflask class. It's been well hidden ever since she made it. Being so well fermented, it won the class. Mum was delighted but I warned her it won't see this season out, now the hiding place is revealed.

My son Felix won his first red rosette in the egg class. Unfortunately the eggs broke on the way home, covering our carefully prepared produce in sticky yolk. The dog classes weren't such a success. Pingu spent more time off the lead than on and Felix ambled round the ring unaware he was leading an empty collar and lead. His special rosette was for entertaining the crowd.

Jo Foster trains horses at Brookleigh Farm, Menston.

CW 18/9/10