Steve Dennis experiences the delights of a day at the Godstone point-to-point

Published in the Racing Post on April 18, 2010

The sun glints off the cars lined up by the rails, flashes off the gaudy silks worn by the pony riders who frantically channel Tony McCoy and Frankie Dettori as they push their ponies up the hill towards the finish.

The winner is past the post as the also-rans come by, the commentator taking the sting out of defeat with a few words of encouragement along the lines of 'it's not all about who wins, it's more important to do your best'. Such schoolroom philosophy might not work at Cheltenham or Ascot, but it sits perfectly here at Godstone point-to-point, where everyone seems to know everyone else. Dogs and children are evidently de rigueur, almost to the point where if you've come empty-handed, one of either variety will be supplied.

Godstone is a newish addition to the point-to-point calendar. One foot in the country, one foot in the city, nestled just south of the eight-lane demarcation line of the M25, shocks of daffodils lining the little roads that lead to it. It's a galloping right-hand track, girdled with an avenue of trees, and with undulations that make Cheltenham and Sedgefield look pancake-flat. The climb from the home turn to the line would make Hillary and Tenzing whistle. There is hardly any run-in to speak of; if your horse is not in front at the last then there is always another day.

Point-to-pointing is an amateur sport; people do it for love not money, that and the prospect of a trophy for the sideboard – and the trophies are satisfyingly large and splendid. Don't make the mistake of equating amateur status with a lack of professionalism, though. The winning post could do with a lick of paint and a few of the paddock sheets are threadbare, but the horses themselves wouldn't look out of place at Sandown or Haydock and there is a competitive edge reminiscent of school sports day, everyone making quite a show of airily pretending they aren't that bothered while simultaneously stiffening the sinews, girding the loins, appraising the opposition.

Back to basics

It's racing, not as we know it but as it exists in some sepia-tinted collective memory, in the vault marked 'good old days'. Wearied by 48-hour declarations? Here's a tonic, here are 45-minute declarations. The racecard indicates the possibles, and half an hour before each race the course announcer comes on with a callover of the final field. Everyone bends over a racecard with a pen, scratching out the scratchings.

The bookmakers price up the eight runners, eventually producing an eyebrow-raising betting market. The dodo, the passenger pigeon, and now evidently the underround book. Numbers are not my strong point, but I can put two and two together and come up with 142 per cent. No-one seems to mind, no-one is here to chisel fractions. Value is an abstract concept weighed in the balance and found wanting against the simple urge to have a bet.

The field for the first – an open maiden – circles the parade ring, inches from the spectators. Children pick their winners, calling out "run fast" to their chosen runner. One asks if his horse has a good chance, and the man leading it round shakes his head with a grin. That's what I call inside information – and he was right.

The jockeys are a mix of wizened experience and fresh-faced enthusiasm, some in silks, some in antique jerseys bearing the hallmark of a hundred hot washes. Their names are displayed in an old-fashioned numberboard that provokes a wash of Proustian memories.

Phil York, fresh from his sixth-place finish in the Aintree Fox Hunters', is legged-up on Rio Novo. A glance at the racecard reveals glories of another world – by Prince of Wales's Stakes winner Nayef out of Queen Mary winner Dead Certain – but breeding will take you only so far. It takes Rio Novo as far as the secondlast, where he and York part company and Behind The Scenes gallops on to victory.

Godstone point-to-point: '£25 per car, squeeze the passengers in to bring down the cost'Credit: Alan Crowhurst (Getty Images)

Certain stereotypes sustain, of course. Those clutching their I-Spy Book of Racing Trousers will find several points-scorers – the mustard corduroy, the cherry-red corduroy, a rare sighting of the bright green – and there is plenty of tweed, and trade stands selling more should you feel underdressed. But there is no dress code; wear what you like even if that does mean an old Crystal Palace replica shirt.

Spectators are free to wander with a drink, the whole process imbued with a great shot of common sense that is frequently lacking at racecourses. There are no confusing enclosures, no mystifying regulations, no labouring under the yoke of pointless restrictions. Adults are trusted to behave like adults, children indulged to behave like children – it is supposed to be fun, after all. There is plenty to eat – even a very old-fashioned sweetie stall that would lift David Ashforth's heart – enough to drink and plenty to see.

There are constant reminders of the bond between point-to-pointing and hunting, not least the three huntsmen who lead the runners to the start for each race, all John Peel, John Bull. This meeting is run under the aegis of the Southdown & Eridge Hunt, and no horse can come through the front door without a current certificate from a registered hunt. For some it is beyond the pale, hunting being an abomination, while for others it is simply a rural rite, a rural right. If you belong to the first camp, don't worry, no-one tries to convert you.

York gains compensation in the second race on even-money chance Orient Legend, and then we're treated to another of the facets of point-to-pointing that puts a spring in the step, the discovery of a familiar name in the racecard. In the parade ring for the third race, the ladies' open, is an old friend in the shape of the snow-white Carryonharry, fourth in a Racing Post Chase, sixth in a Kim Muir.

Here he is at the age of 16, bidding for his 20th win in point-to-points with just one rival in Leatherback, himself no stranger to the winner's enclosure under rules. The pace is strong, and the two horses shadow each other up hill and down dale with barely a length between them. All six races on the card are run over three miles, and the runners would pass the stands, if there were any, twice before heading out on the final circuit. Each time Carryonharry and Leatherback come past they do so in lockstep.

With three to jump, Cynthia Haydon pushes Carryonharry into a clear lead, but between the last two Rose Thorogood galvanises Leatherback and there is little between them over the last, little between them at the line, a neck in it, Carryonharry's neck. Some race.

A simple pleasure

It's a short walk out into the country to stand by a fence, where Bee An Bee (fourth in a Kim Muir) makes his jumping count on the way to victory, the third of four hot favourites to win during the afternoon, a good day for punters whatever the percentages suggest. On the way back there's time to stand by the open-air betting shop to watch Irish Derby winner Fame And Glory run a lacklustre third at the Curragh before Victree wins the Members' race worth £150 to the winner, with a new rug for the horse thrown in. From the sublime to the ridiculous . . . no, more like the other way round.

There are no coloured numbercloths here, no decimal odds, no braying 'celebrities', no tribute bands, just a few horses running for a pocketful of change and a big silver cup, watched by a knowledgeable and involved crowd who haven't paid through the nose to attend – £25 per car, squeeze the passengers in to bring down the cost. It doesn't take a lot of work to make it work; perhaps Racing For Change don't need to change all that much, you know.

The shadows are lengthening by the time Brigadier Du Bois wins the last, the car-boot picnics tucked away, the numberboard lowered and emptied. Cars form a knot at the exit; getting out is the hardest part because no-one leaves before the last. It's hard to drag yourself away, you see.

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Alastair Down on a win that secured Kauto Star's place among the all-time greats

Paul Carberry: I still believe I gave Harchibald the best chance of winning

Denman's racing immortality leaves mere passing firmly in the shade

Ted Walsh: look, sometimes I put my foot into it but that is part of what I am

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