English Lake District village life

FROM THE PRESS...

A DAY AT THE RACES

Early summer mornings are always cool and refreshing in Britain and this morning is no exception. The honeysuckle is in full bloom in hedgerows and cascading over garden walls. Its delicate fragrance mixes with the heavenly scent of rambling English roses carried on the calm morning air. The early sunshine picks out the worn cobblestones of the sleepy main street in the Lakeland village of Cartmell as it prepares itself for one of the biggest days of its calendar. The tranquil village center has just the odd soul around in the stillness of early morning, preparing the pig roast or putting out the temporary traffic cones. Although Cartmell is out of the way of the popular regions of the Lake District, today the English will travel from all over this beautiful North West corner of their country to indulge in that classic tradition - a day at the races.

Mark Hodson is a freelance travel writer, having written articles, features and books on a wide variety of topics. This is what he made of a day on one of our tours.

If you feel you'd like to get a flavor of a day at the races in England, at certain times of the year our Lune Valley, Lake District and Welsh Borderlands vacations give that opportunity. More details of intineraries can be found on our Walks web page. If you are staying in Britain for longer, our office can help with a host of options for seeing this English sport at its best.

Returning to Cartmell in the afternoon after a wonderful walk and a sumptuous picnic, we find the village with its numerous old pubs a hive of activity. Racegoers of all ages and from all walks of life have gathered to join in this unique event, one of only five racedays taking place here throughout the year. The tweeds and classic fashion of the Rangerover owners mix with pensioners, prams and people who have come simply to soak up the magic of the races.
	This is pure storybook stuff. The idyllic setting for the venue is private land owned by Lord and Lady Cavendish of nearby Holker Hall. Here the racecourse circles around the cricket ground and the bowling green with its whitewashed and weather-beaten pavilion. The music from the funfair rides and stalls drifts over to us as we eagerly scour the "odds" of the trackside bookmakers, putting into practice knowledge gained from our guide. Mingling in line with the racegoing locals, I give my instructions of "Ł2 to win on "Heathyard's Tipple", trying to look as knowledgeable, nonchalant and local as possible. The bookmaker, a man in his forties wearing a flat cap and a cheeky smile repeats my instructions in his sing-song Lakeland accent as he gives me my betting ticket. We then make our way past picnicking families to the trackside to watch the race. A couple over to our right have brought along their deck chairs and champagne glasses and are popping out the cork. Behind them in the sunshine lies a multicolored sea of folk eagerly awaiting the start of the race.
We're actually in the center of the racetrack partially enclosed by a rickety white fence. Here the contented hum of folks relaxing in the "beer tent" mingles with the noise from sideshows where you can win a teddy bear with the throw of a few darts. This event is a throwback to times before Britain's industrial revolution when peasants gathered to celebrate the highpoints of the farming calendar. Even today the races are only held in May and in August, the traditional time for celebrating the rural fetes and "fayres".
	A weathered old man closes off the lane that leads to the center of the racecourse. He then covers it liberally with straw in preparation for the race. The well-groomed horses gallop past us on their way to the starting line as a well-bred BBC accent captures our attention over the loudspeakers, announcing the colors of the jockeys' "jerseys". Craning my neck, I manage to identify my jockey wearing royal blue, a white sash and a quartered cap atop a handsome silky-coated mare. My heart is in my mouth as the drama unfolds - the two-mile race over fences seems to pass quickly and in slow motion all at the same time. "Heathyard's Tipple" is a length behind the leader for most of the race. As the towering horse and jockeys pound past us towards the finishing post, the noise of the crowd crescendos with excitement, as does the voice of the commentator. ".... and it's "Heathyard's Tipple" coming through on the outside to take the lead at the finishing post!" I return to the "bookie" and proudly present my winning ticket. "Well done!" says the smiling face, not seeming to begrudge my taking the princely sum of fourteen pounds from him.
As I return to the congratulations of my fellow walkers, our guide is pointing out the tower of the huge 11th century priory church above the nearby cottages. It seems strange that a small village should boast such a large place of worship - it dominates the village's houses and inns. A former monastery, it survived dissolution under Henry VIII and also destruction by Oliver Cromwell in the English civil war. The gunshot fired into the church by enraged locals at Cromwell's rampaging men is still preserved. For a small hamlet, it also has a surprisingly large number of pubs - virtually all the inhabitants would need to go out at once to fill them! Maybe they do, for the picturesque inns are homely and welcoming, a convivial place for all ages and classes to meet. The charming inns of this country have certainly proved a popular place to relax for my fellow walkers after an excellent day's walk. LancasterAuthentic are showing initiative in a groundbreaking way at the start of the millennium when the choice of new and far away destinations is almost becoming too much to bear. Here we have a company which is seeking to provide the visitor with a real, two-way experience. Most tours today, no matter how elaborate, only bring you into contact with those providing a service, keeping you within a secure cocooned environment with your fellow traveling inmates. So far on this tour, we've been joined by local folks - people who don't want our money or anything else from us other than friendly conversation, an exchange of views and the fellowship of a "jolly good walk". We have also had the privilege of joining in events which form part of the fabric of local communities in this largely untouched region of England.
	The eloquent voice of the race announcer echoes around the racetrack once more informing us of the prizes. Locally made Sticky Toffee Pudding is the fine reward for the trainer, the more usual champagne for the owner and jockey, as well as twenty pounds to spend for the stable lad or lass in charge of the best turned out horse. I would have gone for the trainer's prize myself.
Today has been exceptional, I reflect, as we turn to walk the final half-mile from the racecourse to our beautiful guesthouse. As we leave, dads are lighting barbecues, kids are kicking soccer balls, grandmas lay the heavy woolen plaid car rugs on the ground and mums produce a vast array of mouthwatering salads and sandwiches from seemingly minute cars. Tonight we stay in a wonderful old inn, with rooms full of character, fantastic food and wine and a beautiful view. I'm looking forward to a nice long bath before dinner. My copy of the Racing Post will be kept as a memento - it seems strange now that only an hour ago well-meaning local folks were jabbing their fingers helping me pick a sure-fire winner as if life depended on it.
	When I leave this trip to return home I shall treasure memories of days such as today. I'll also treasure the insights I gained pretending to be a local myself among the picnicking racegoing families. I know I'll come back next year to indulge in the Chipping Show or Scarecrow Festival, or even applaud at the Midsummer brass band concert on the village green. Back home I can wax eloquent about where I've been, safe in the knowledge that no one else has. Best of all, I know that when I come back these beautiful areas will be just as undiscovered as the last time I was there.