When I opened today's Thoroughbred Daily News and saw James on the front page, I assumed it would be a follow-up to Bobby Flay's glowing words about James's talents in the paper last week. It took me a few moments for the actual headline to sink in.
For me, James's death marks the passing of my most influential bloodstock mentor. From the time I first started at his Adstock Manor Stud in 1990, James became a father-figure-like fountain of equine knowledge to me. When I moved into a cottage at Adstock, another occupant working the yearling sales prep (David Redvers) commented that it was a pity for me to come to such a place as Adstock only to work with hunters and point-to-pointers. At the time, I didn't quite understand what he meant. However, luck turned out to be on my side because as soon as the December sales were over, James was around every day, either riding out, or on the ground directing gallops, and for two winters I found myself with unparalleled access to arguably the finest judge of a horse in modern racing. He and his right-hand man, George Cook, really gave me the foundation I needed to understand and assess horses. I remember one of my first questions for him was to ask why he'd bought a horse out of Keeneland September specifically to become a hunter-chaser. His reply was simply: “look at him. Really look at him. Take him in.” The horse turned out to be a talented performer over fences. Naturally.
James also gave me the privilege of so many good days fox hunting with the Bicester and Waddon Chase and seemed to particularly enjoy it when I teamed up with the tearaway hunter-chaser King Neon, co-owned and bred by him and George. A tricky horse to control, at times I ended up riding very close to the Field Masters. One, Ian McKie, was understanding and even encouraging, being an amateur jockey himself. However another Field Master, who was never the bravest across country, once gave me a terrible dressing-down for coming within a length of him over an open ditch. James thought it highly amusing and told me “Don't worry about it. Serves him right. Next time tell him he shouldn't dither about in front of fences!” Well, quite. Though, at just 18, I didn't have the guts to talk back to the man!
James was that thing which is so rare in racing these days. A grass-roots stockman and horseman. Someone who understood that the land and the horses are inseparable. As time moved on and racing morphed into The Thoroughbred Industry, we shared our disdain for the new wave of slick bullshitters in the game who amazingly manage to grab the ears of new owners and manipulate them for short-term gain. During an e-mail exchange a few years ago, we agreed that Slick Drivel would be a great, and apt, name for a racehorse!
I loved and shared his wicked sense of humour, and Sunday lunches in the kitchen at Adstock were always entertaining and the highlight of my working week.
Much to my amazement, he never forgot me and years after my time at Adstock, he sought me out to run an expanding private farm in Ireland. That venture might have been short-lived for both of us but was a valuable experience for me. When I then turned down a job he found for me in England in order to go out to Turkey, he thought I was barking mad, but when I explained to him that I needed to get away from the money-grabbing commercial juggernaut that racing and breeding had become and go out to help upgrade standards in a country where it was still a sport where owner-breeders dominated and took pleasure in seeing their horses run without worrying about sales value, he understood perfectly. From time to time, he lamented the way things had changed and how unfortunately, we can't put the genie back in the bottle. He was right about that one too, even if we should try to put it back in.
In latter years we often met at mare sales and usually had an amusing dinner together. One particular evening at Cardigan Street we launched into a vibrant, irreverent discussion on the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. We got right into it, much to the consternation of two other guests, who were unsure whether we were being serious or satirical. The reality was we veered between the two constantly. It was such a fun night, topped off with a good dollop of mockery of a certain pompous racing figure, which always made James giggle!
The last time we spoke was back in February when his friend George Cook died. Makes it all the more shocking that James is now gone so soon afterwards, although I am glad that at least he went whilst out on a grouse moor, doing something he loved.
I will miss him. So will many others.
Eric Ward grew up in Ireland and spent nearly 30 years in stud farming all over the world including a decade with Coolmore. He managed studs in Ireland, China and Turkey. Now based in Gaillac, France he assists his winemaker wife, writes novels and is also a volunteer fire-fighter/first responder.
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