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DIARY ODYSSEY LOG - Week 6 Updated 10th January 2002 Ride Log Index   |   Photo Gallery   |   Full Itinerary   |   Events   Week Six:   Bacup, Berwick - Edinburgh, then Haydock Park Races    'Rest' Day Monday 24th September Peter: Breakfast. "Peter, how would you like to drive up Princes Street?" "Sounds great. What's the plan?" We had two alternatives 1. Slink home 2. Box to Berwick, ride to Edinburgh and finish up Princes Street. Obvious decision. Salvage something from the ashes of F&M and finish in style. All of Monday and half of Tuesday telephoning Police, City Council, stables en route for Kaan, Scottish newspapers, ME Groups, all Martha's friends and relations and hundreds more! For Princes Street, now read Royal Mile from Holyrood Palace to the Castle - and lots more telephoning. Gill: Thank goodness for the comfort of Julia's house at Todmorden - and the run of her phone. Imagine if we were trying to re-make our plans in Bertha on mobiles... As it is, by the time we leave on Tuesday (after Julia and Geoff have given us a wonderful dinner on Monday night), we have run up a phone bill of £26. And thank goodness that Martha comes from Edinburgh, and is part of a network of voluntary workers. By next morning she has a formidable team organised and an impossible set of arrangements in place to relieve the Edinburgh public of their spare cash. Kaan, meanwhile, is in clover - literally. Here for the first time he can be turned out into secure grazing, and has company - Julia's Akhal-Teke, Tekkali, and Geoff's Oliver are just the other side of an electric fence. By Road to Berwick Tuesday 25th September Peter: Pack up, empty box, Gill disinfectant-spraying 4 square feet of horsebox per breath, up and away by 3 pm in spite of the seargeant-major's best efforts to leave by 1. Arrived at a wonderful old manor house south of Berwick about 10.30. Greeted by Wanda, wonderful lady of 70-something, and her guests for the evening. Wanda's daughter Alison was a friend from many years ago of Martha - long chat on phone. We were persuaded to sit down to hot curried-parsnip soup. And so to bed with Bertha parked under huge beech trees which turned raindrops into nails which rattled down making sleep difficult. Gill: A long flog past f&m territory. Having spent my early childhood in these parts, I had looked forward to passing familiar names on signposts from Harrogate to Durham. But Martha and I remain oblivious in the back while Peter and Bertha devour the Great North Road, rousing ourselves only briefly to glimpse in the darkness the Angel of the North, a huge angular blot on the landscape and barely worth lifting a grudging eyelid for. Berwick to Longformacus Wednesday 26th September Gill: Daylight gives us our first proper look at Wanda's beautiful old manor house, with its magnificent coach-and-stableyard behind. How amazing that, after a chain of "I can't mange to put up your horse but perhaps my friend can", heading through about four people, we finally stay with a friend of Martha's family. We scramble into Berwick for our press call, and Kaan stands quite unmoved while a screaming fire-engine passes inches from his nose, brakes and tyres screaming. Perhaps it's noblesse oblige that he affects not to remember a recent and embarrassing incident involving an intended romantic liaison: himself - too enthusiastic - stuck immovably across the teasing rail, and the fire brigade summoned to cut him free. Just outside Berwick we fall in for a bit with another horse and rider. My new companion knows Mrs Ann MacKinnon whose house we're bound for tonight - it really is a small world round here. Together we cross the wholly delightful Chain Bridge over the Tweed, and immediately after a "Welcome to Scotland" sign stretches my already ear-to-ear grin until it pretty well meets round the back of my head. A long stretch on B-roads, but with scarcely any traffic - and wonderful, smooth verges. At last, after all the tarmac, it's possible to travel the way one should on an Akhal-Teke: at a long, swinging canter that eats up the miles and yet is so smooth you barely move in the saddle. I hand over to Martha, and as we limp into Mrs MacKinnon's house at Longformacus, the only one who has any energy left is Kaan. I spend the early evening blotto in my bunk. Later a hand comes up, finds mine, and puts a sausage sandwich into it. Ambrosia; the best thing I've ever eaten. "Don't tell my wife", says Peter as he takes his pinny off. "I'll be expected to do this at home." Peter: Up at crack of dawn (dawn arrived a bit late) to be in Berwick Town Hall by 10. We nearly made it. Unbox Kaan, Town Hall and photos... ...over the Tweed Bridge and on the way towards Edinburgh. Peter lost Martha. Martha found Peter. Emotional reunion and they would have lived happily ever after but work to be done so off in pursuit of Gill. Gill and Kaan recrossed the Tweed by the Chain Bridge, max width 6'6". We tried to emulate them (emulation can be nice on a cold morning) but failed by 1". Much smell from clutch - but don't tell Gill, she's neurotic about the clutch from bad memories. Gill met up with lovely lady and Kaan agreed that they could ride together for a while. Good boy. Arrived at Longformacus, in the Lammermuir Hills, by 6 - difficult approach but a nice little stable block surrounded by rhododendrons, trees and walled garden. Welcomed by Mrs. Ann MacKinnon. The girls had a hot bath but the driver wasn't offered - well, drivers should know their place and not expect such luxuries! It had been a very long ride; felt so sad for the prostrate girls, even cooked sausages for them, scraping the bottom of the barrel of my culinary expertise - they would have eaten anything. Longformacus to Damhead Thursday 27th September    Peter: Reveille was courtesy of Willie, 80 if he was a day, arriving complete with red crash-helmet on a little motor-bike, dismounting with difficulty and hobbling off to do his gardening, walking stick in one hand, pickaxe in the other. Lovely little man with a big stutter who emptied his pocket for the Odyssey fund!   Off by 11 and, after Longformacus, Martha rode Kaan across the Lammermuir Hills. Boxed to stables at Damhead, lots of company for Kaan who made his male presence noisily felt. The Lester-Cribbs, Martha's parents, arrived, Mum complete with empty bags to leave with them full of female washing (the driver doesn't remember being offered this service - getting to know his place). Gill: Poor Peter had to provide enough impetus to move all three of us this morning, and we finally set off sometime after mid-day. Martha is riding the stretch through the village over the Lammermuir Hills, but I take the first mile just in case a nubile filly should suddenly leer at Kaan from behind a hedge. After a few minutes my mobile rings. It's Brough Scott, who has kindly taken a keen interest throughout the Ride. "Is that Himself?" he asks as the sound of horseshoes on tarmac bounces off the satellite along with my voice. He has two bits of good news: he has arranged for George Duffield, a leading flat-race jockey, to ride Kaan for us at Haydock and he has written a piece on the Odyssey for Horse and Hound that will be published next week. Peter has stopped at the cattle grid on to the moor. and Martha takes over. We rendezvous at the Millennium toposcope that was unveiled last year by Mrs MacKinnon's gardener, Willie Fairburn, who is the oldest man in the parish. Then onwards and down off the moor to the first village, where I take over again. A few miles, and I've had it. We'd had support arranged in Northumberland, but here it's just Martha and me, ME riders both, trying to hold the fort. For the first and last time we cut fifteen miles without doing an "equivalent" distance, and box to our stabling just outside Edinburgh. In the circumstances, I don't think anyone will blame us. Edinburgh (and Aintree) Friday 28th September    Gill: The Big Day. Journey's End. We've almost made it. Mercifully, it's a late start; we're due outside Holyrood Palace at 2 p.m. For safety's sake we box across the by-pass and unload where dual-carriageway gives way to a four-lane highway with a sensible speed limit. From here it's not far; up into the centre, across the traffic lights by the swimming pool, with a weather eye out for double-decker buses; and down to Arthur's Seat, where a collar of pristine, freshly mown grass collects a few hoofprints as a brisk canter takes the itch out of Kaan's heels. At Arthur's Seat Waiting in the car park the other side, Bertha looks resplendent. Huge boards slung either side bear the Odyssey map and horsehead motif, bunches of balloons billow from every available knob and Royal Mile posters cover the few bare parts of the trailer. Sandy, Ros and Martha are waiting in Turkoman costume, with collecting buckets that rattle promisingly - Sandy's team have already been collecting half the morning in Princes Street and around the Castle. Within moments Martha is up, a Tymes Trust banner is draped around Bertha's bonnet - and over the radiator - and we are off, Peter following close behind Kaan with hazard lights flashing, one eye on the Edinburgh traffic and the other nervously locked on the temperature gauge. As we reach Holyrood Palace and turn into the Royal Mile, the parade gathers momentum, One after another, people with collecting boxes emerge from side streets to join us, perhaps grabbing a khalat and telpek, until the little group of horse, rider and two companions has swelled into a procession. People gape at the invasion of the Turkomans; this is the moment to chat them up, thrust a leaflet into their hands, and sweet-talk them out of the contents of their pockets. At the final traffic lights near the top, we halt for the Edinburgh Evening News photographer. Unable to bear being a spectator any longer, I grab a khalat, telpek and collecting box and jump out to help fleece the tourists. The photographer finishes, the lights change and Peter is swept on in the traffic. I have to tackle the last of the hill on foot, and so arrive late at our meeting with the final Odyssey gremlin. A red-faced, spluttering little man has halted the procession at the Castle Promenade. He splutters that we must stand "on the cobbles over there" but is too spluttery to explain why. Presumably in Edinburgh people with funny clothes have to stand on cobbles, just as Victorian school children with dunce's hats had to stand in corners. Help soon arrives, in the form of Mr. MacCallum, Chief Warden for Historic Scotland. "This sort of thing happens all the time," he says resignedly. Apparently the jurisdiction of Edinburgh Council, who have given us permission to go right up to the Castle gates, stops short of the Promenade, and the mystery of the cobbles was they marked the boundary of Council land. "So who owns this bit?" "Historic Scotland. You need to ask them for permission." One quick phone call, and problem solved. Mr. MacCallum comes back with a smile on his face, the little man (now redder in the face than ever) returns into his sentry box to sulk, and Kaan - who has been standing with unaccustomed patience steps forward with Martha and crosses the final hundred yards to the Castle gates. Historic Scotland Chief Warden Mr MacCallum greets the Odyssey at Edinburgh Castle We've finished the Odyssey. *** An hour's breather on a double yellow line just round the corner ("We're just here for five minutes to load the horse", Peter told the traffic warden), a bucket of carrots for Kaan, a veritable hamper from Martha's wonderful parents, cups of tea and goodbyes and thank-yous to the fantastic Edinburgh team; then - no peace for the wicked - we must hit the road south for Haydock Races the next day. Once more Peter knocks off the entire journey with only a brief pit-stop while Martha and I are dead to the world. Haydock Park cannot give us stabling on Friday - racecourse security - so they have kindly arranged a stable at Aintree, home of the Grand National. "We've put you in Red Rum's box", said the Clerk of the Course. He has to be joking. But Mal, the kindly security man who opens the gates for us, leads us straight to the hallowed no. 46, with Red Rum's name above. Kaan is quite unimpressed by the honour; all he wants is a roll, and his dinner. Peter: Boxed across the Bypass and let Kaan and Gill loose (my heart was in my mouth, buses and traffic, tried not to show my deep concern), met at Holyrood Palace by Sandy, Ros and others. Martha mounted and she, Ros and Sandy in costume rode the Royal Mile to the Castle entrance, there to be stopped by a jobsworth GOPWO (army term for Grossly Over Promoted Warrant Officer). Never seen Gill stopped by mere mortal yet, summoned the king-of-the-castle and was welcomed into the forecourt, Pamela from one of the papers in close camera-clicking attendance. Driver, Bertha and box, bedecked with posters and balloons, followed closely, but not so close as to spoil Pamela's pictures - driver's place in society being confimed. Just Rewards! The Star enjoys all the carrot juice he can take after his six weeks on the road The end of the Odyssey road. Cups of tea. Farewells to family and friends and away south to arrive at Aintree at 10.30 pm. Gates opened by friendly security man Mal who showed Kaan to Red Rum's stable and us to the stable lads' quarters for showers etc. (at last the driver's station was found, clean and smelling sweet once more). Bed and giggles much too late. Mal Glover, Aintree Security man: I'm 59 years of age, and I've been at Aintree Security for the past twelve years. I'm one of three security guards working here. I've seen eleven Grand Nationals, and in my time I've seen some good horses at Aintree - Bobbyjo, Earth Summit, Red Rum... I was here the year of the non-start, and the year of the bomb scare, when I was one of the last security guards off the racecourse. In between working for Aintree I've also worked for security firms at Blenheim Horse Trials and Badminton. I'd like to welcome you all to Aintree, and hope you have a pleasant night - and a quiet one. You hear a lot of stories about ghosts, but don't believe 'em! I'm handing over to my night man in half-an-hour, so I'll just say goodnight. Whichever way you view it, Kaan looks very much at home in Red Rum's Aintree stable Haydock Park Saturday 29th September    Gill: The start of an extraordinary day. Before regretfully extracting Kaan from Red Rum's box I walked on to the course, feeling the ghosts of giants hovering all about me; and down to the Chair, now just a skeleton without its brush covering but still formidable by the size of its ditch alone. At Haydock Park Racecourse, the support team are waiting. Judith Alexander, mother of a Tymes member; and Rob and Carla with William and Wesley. How marvellous that Rob, who has done so much behind the scenes and carried the whole scheme from the start, is well enough today to be here for what turns out to be a spectacular occasion. Off go the collectors to the gates, while Peter takes the stand (and only confesses much later that he hates selling things, hates handling jewellery, and would have preferred even the dreaded bucket job). I thankfully hand over Kaan to George Duffield, who - heroically riding racing length on an endurance saddle with a straight cut and knee rolls - thunders up in front of the stands, somehow making Kaan look as much a professional as himself. Afterwards we meet John Wray, of Stanley Leisure, who have so kindly given us a generous sum of sponsorship money. In addition he gives us a one hundred pound bet on the final race. We scan the racecard, but in the end there is only one choice - George Duffield's ride, Albanova. She gives him the ride from hell; it's her first time on a racecourse, and she jumps off slowly, loses her rhythm on the bend, is last into the straight, runs on the angle... somehow George gets her balanced and running in the last furlong, and she powers past the field to win by a head. It's a moment of pure ecstasy. After the last racegoer has left, we examine the takings. Half a bucketful, that is, over a gallon, of money; we have to split it into two lots before it can be lifted into the boot of Rob's car. Peter: Haydock Park Racecourse. Met by the wonderful Rob and family and Judith Alexander, a Tymes member. How did Gill arrange to get George Duffield to ride up the straight in front of the stands and gallop back? - with prepared commentary over the speaker system. The team collected over £1,100. John Wray of Stanley Leisure presented a cheque for £250 to the Odyssey, then offered up to £100 bet on the last race. No choice - George Duffield's horse - and it won at 5 - 1. I watched Gill hurl her collecting box 30 feet in the air (and catch it). What a way to end. Saturday night at Haydock stable after pub grub. Haydock Park - £1800 later Home Sunday 30th September Peter: Back to Todmorden via Preston to put Martha on the train, sad farewells, she was marvellous, return saddle to Julia, pick up Kaan's saddle, back to Haydock to pick up Kaan and back home by 10ish. < Week Five    Week Seven >