In a corner of a hidden Scottish field, there stands a scruffy, woolly, wintery mare. There has been a frost of minus three, so she has fluffed up her coat like a Teddy bear, to capture the warmth generated by her huge heart. Her chestnut colour is singing russet and scarlet in the sunshine. Her eyelids flicker as she dreams her dreams, and her great muscle-set, handed down to her by twenty-eight generations of athletes, is entirely relaxed. She is at peace.
She is possibly the least important Thoroughbred in Britain. She never set the crowd on a roar. She didn't come close to winning a race. (She liked to trundle round at the back.) Her name would not be recognised by the most diligent historian of racing. She appeared on the scene for a brief, catastrophically unsuccessful season, never troubling the judge, leaving not a ripple among the punters, hardly fast enough to be given a Timeform rating, before disappearing quietly into the realms of the forgotten.
In terms of worldly value, she is worth nothing. To me, she is worth everything. No amount of money could buy what she gives me, every single day, and that is because, each morning and each evening, she makes me laugh and she gives me pure, singing joy and she makes me a better human being. She is my best companion and there is no price you can put on that.
This is what the forgotten do, as they vanish from public view. They lift private hearts, in unseen paddocks. They have no fame or fortune. They leave not a trace behind. And it's important to remember that the majority of Thoroughbreds will fall into this unremembered category. Champions are rare, which is why the public recalls their names and lists them in order of greatness. It's why people still say, 'I was there.' I was there – when Frankel blew apart the field in that almost unbelievable, sun-spangled Guineas, when Kauto Star tore up the history books in his fifth, joyous King George, when Dancing Brave danced past them all in the Arc, when Desert Orchid battled up the hill to an unstoppable, exuberant, riotous swoon of adoration in the Gold Cup.
Just as horses are herd animals, so humans are social animals – we need our tribe, our sense of community, our knowledge of belonging. And, curiously, this is one of the things that the ordinary, unstarry Thoroughbreds unobtrusively give, in their unremarked retirements, long after the crowds have moved on.
That's the official value – the historic victories, the vast purses won, the ineradicable memories, the great duels, the stratospheric ratings. That's the plain meaning of success, in racing, as the great ones reach their legendary status, and go into the realm of myth.
Possibly the greatest human need is connection. Just as horses are herd animals, so humans are social animals – we need our tribe, our sense of community, our knowledge of belonging. And, curiously, this is one of the things that the ordinary, unstarry Thoroughbreds unobtrusively give, in their unremarked retirements, long after the crowds have moved on.
It's not what they were bred for. The breed was invented over three hundred years ago, when Captain Byerley brought his great Turk back from the wars. The Big Daddy of them all was later joined, in the development of one of the most beautiful, fleet set of horses ever seen, in the other storied sires – The Darley Arabian and the Godolphin Arabian and a whole slew of Barbs and Arabs and Turks. The mares who were put to them are not so heralded; some of them even did not have proper names. (My favourite is Miss Darcy's Pet Mare, who can be found in the pedigree of almost every champion, if you go far back enough. I have a vision of Miss Darcy riding about on her sweetheart, until her father cast a beady eye over the horse and said, 'I'll take that one to the breeding shed'.) The breed was, and still is, predicated on strength and speed and stamina. The goal is what it always was: winning.
But my red mare has taught me that there are different kinds of winning. She made me look anew at ideas of value and success. Her gentleness and kindness and beauty don't just make my heart expand, until it feels it will fly out of my chest, but they touch many other humans too. She brings smiles to the faces of the young children who ride her, as if she is a doting old schoolmistress. She is a part of the family, and all my relatives know that if they are having a bad day, they can come and stand by her and take away some of the peace she exudes. (You can feel it rolling off her, in embracing waves.) I often go for walks with her, in the woods, and we pass many merry people from the village, out with their dogs, and they stop and beam at us and talk for a while, as she stations herself perfectly still and does her special event, which is the Standing Still Olympics. I think they thought that taking your horse for a walk was an odd thing to do, and they probably laughed at us, at the beginning, but now we are a known part of the community.
I make jokes about her being a therapy horse, but really it's deadly serious. She keeps me anchored, in the literal and metaphorical Scottish earth. She makes me know who I am. She offers me her great power, when we gallop up into the Scottish hills and I feel her mighty Thoroughbred strength pouring into my puny human body. She gives me routine and purpose. In all weathers, I go out to care for her, however tired or grumpy I am feeling, and when I've set her to rights, I have that holy feeling of having done something good.
There are many kinds of retirement for racehorses. You'll hear about some of the ones who find stardom in their second career – wowing the watchers at Badminton, or gleaming under the lights at the Horse of the Year Show, or working as actual therapy horses. (There are four of these down the valley from me, at a charity called HorseBack UK, and these ex-racers work with wounded veterans and troubled children and people in wheelchairs. They literally save lives.)
But there will be lots just like mine. We don't do much. We pootle around on the buckle, taking our old lady rides into the high forests. We exist on different sides of the species barrier, but we are both made of the ancient remnants of exploded stars, and that's what makes me feel part of something much, much greater than myself.
We are unseen, but we are not alone. There are many just like us. Every time I see a mare in foal to Frankel stalk through the Tattersalls ring, raising gasps as her price rises into the millions, or I watch a new star bursting onto the scene, as the race-callers' voices hit a bright pitch of excitement, or I contemplate the hardened warriors lining up in the King George, as they will on Boxing Day, I think of the ones like me, who are not winning in the obvious way. We have mud on our boots and hay in our hair and more love in our hearts than words can express. Because that's what Thoroughbreds can do, when their racing days are over: they cleverly train their humans in the ways of love.
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