electric atmosphere of the big summer occasion on Epsom Downs, but what really fascinated him was the fact that Homeward Bound was from the same mare as Chalk Stream. He worked out that the basic shape and conformation of the two horses was from the dam. He also considered that their similar will-to-win must spring from the same genes. But Homeward Bound’s superior class, and her ability to run over a longer distance, and to keep running on strongly, uphill to the finish, must surely have come from her sire, the great staying horse and champion stallion, Alycidon. Robert immersed himself in books about the subject, poring over long-forgotten pedigrees, tracing bloodlines to famous stallions, trying to formulate patterns of breeding, which stallion lines worked best with which female lines.
But these were his evening preoccupations. His day-to-day dramas on the racecourse were still conducted around the northern tracks, and the one he loved most of all was the modest Scottish course which sits on the south Ayrshire coast on the shores of the Firth of Clyde. The two big meetings at Ayr Racecourse, in June and the Western Meeting in September, represented for Robert something approximately between Christmas and Mardi Gras. Or at least he was apt to turn the occasions into those qualities of celebration. He would arrive on the evening before the racing began, by now sweeping up the drive to the Turnberry Hotel in a new Rolls Royce, and within the hour he would report to one of the greatest golf links in the world. Turnberry, a 7000-yard championship test, spreads along the shoreline, guarded by a magnificent lighthouse. In terms of difficulty it compares very favourably with Robert’s home links of Hoylake, and like Royal Liverpool has been the scene of a titanic and historic battle for the British Open – in 1977 Tom Watson and Jack Nicklaus burst ten strokes clear of the field before Watson’s 65 beat Jack’s last-round 66. Its views out towards the Irish Sea are as romantic as those from the Wirral. In the near distance you can see the granite dome of the island of Ailsa Craig, and beyond that the Mull of Kintyre. On very clear days, you can see the distant shores of County Antrim in the north-east of Ireland. With the possible exception of the winner’s enclosure at the nearby racecourse, Robert’s favourite place on all of this earth may very well be the ninth hole at Turnberry, the tee of which sits on a rocky pinnacle out to sea.
Nick Robinson recalls one glorious summer evening here, just as the sun was turning the far reaches of the ocean to the colour of spent fire as it sunk behind the waves. Robert was about to hit when someone carelessly asked him, in the middle of his backswing, ‘Does that lighthouse work?’
‘Only when it’s dark,’ replied Robert breezily as he struck a long drive out over the in-running tide and over the cliffs towards the fairway, and the green, set hard by the great nautical light.
Only truly diabolical weather ever prevented him playing nine holes after a day at the races. And nothing ever prevented him playing eighteen before he went to the races.
Win, lose or draw, he and his friends – plus of course Eric Cousins – dined sumptuously at the Turnberry Hotel every night, not, incidentally, at his expense, although he would usually insist on standing the party two or three bottles of decent champagne by way of an overture. Sometimes the party was overshadowed by a particularly grim loss to the bookmakers, but not for long. And certainly not on the occasions when his chestnut colt Shy Boy (by Alycidon) – bought for 2300 guineas at the autumn sales – won twice at the Ayr June meeting over a mile and a half. Definitely not when his bay gelding Endorsement – bought for only 1000 guineas from Jack Jarvis – won the Ayrshire Handicap by a neck from Night Star. Words can barely describe the fun and games which broke out after Robert’s lovely chestnut filly Brief Star got up on the line to win the major race of the Western Meeting, the Ayr Gold Cup.
However, no race in Eric Cousins’s relatively short but meteoric career as a trainer ever matched that Gold Cup for such personal tensions and feelings of rivalry inside his own stable. It had all begun back in the days of the old Kardomah lunch club. Robert had introduced two of his friends to Eric. They were David Freeman who ran an upmarket meat canning business (Gold Dish Ox-Tongues), and Leo McParland, whose family owned a major cattle importing business, bringing the beasts in from Ireland presumably in order to help fill the Freeman cans. These two old friends also went in together and bought a couple of racehorses, but one of them was a very useful filly named Ludham, and when she finished third in the Oaks, having finished second in the Cheshire Oaks, Robert felt slightly aggrieved at the sheer quality of their filly – better than any horse he had ever owned. Then Ludham came out and won the Doonside Cup at Ayr and they all thought Robert’s nose was really out of joint, though he said nothing.
But now things were rather different. David Freeman and Leo McParland had another good racehorse, a very fast but moderately bred gelding called Salan. They very much wanted him to run in the Ayr Gold Cup where Robert’s own filly was bidding for glory. In addition everyone knew Robert had a massive wager on the race. He would never say precisely how much but Nick Robinson thought it was a £100 double – Intermezzo to win the St Leger at 7–1 and Brief Star for the Gold Cup at 33–1. When Intermezzo won the St Leger the entire situation became rather serious.
Robert turned up at the Turnberry Hotel, at the usual time, and took a surreptitious glance at the wine list, which was reputed to be the best in Scotland. After the traditional twilight nine holes, he changed and prepared for dinner with four of his closest friends – Nick; Bobby McAlpine, heir to the large northern-based construction company Sir Alfred McAlpine Ltd; Tim Holland, proprietor of the legendary London gaming club, Crockford’s (whose faithful caddy Mullins sat alone at a nearby table); and Tim Kitson, the young Yorkshire politician who was to become Parliamentary Private Secretary to the future Tory Prime Minister Edward Heath. Eric Cousins joined them an hour later. By now the dining room was full of racing’s major personalities, as it always was for this meeting: the champion jockey Lester Piggott, the professional gambler Alec Bird with his guest Phil Bull, the red-bearded publisher of racing’s ‘Bible’ Timeform, leading northern owner Guy Reed, trainers Geoff Wragg, Peter Easterby, Sam Hall and Harry Thompson Jones, and others.
All through dinner Robert kept going on about the presence of Salan in his race. Eric was, naturally, in a very awkward position. He owed loyalty to all of his owners, and Freeman and McParland were insisting on running their horse. Robert kept muttering darkly about the consequences of Salan beating Brief Star. And as Robert kept looking at the form, Eric was clearly looking at the sack from his old friend and principal owner. He tried to explain his position, but Robert continued to grumble. He was still grumbling the following day when the starter sent the field away. And he was beside himself when Salan hit the front coming to the final furlong. But Brief Star was still there, running fiercely in the middle of the pack. Suddenly she made her break, on the outside, and flew over the closing yards, to nail Salan right on the line, winning by a neck.
Robert, fighting back his overpowering joy, turned to Nick and said cheerfully: ‘Well, that wasn’t much trouble, was it?’ And then to Eric, he said, with a smile of absolute calm, ‘Of course, you knew I was only kidding, didn’t you?’
There was another occasion at Ayr a few years later when Eric Cousins advised Robert to have a bet on yet another chestnut filly of his, Solo Stream, in Ayr’s big race of the day, the five-furlong Bass Special sprint. However, before they went to post, Robert had spent half an hour chatting to the great Irish trainer Mick O’Toole, who could be damned if he could see anything beating his horse in the race. Robert changed his mind and backed the Irish horse instead of his own. He watched the race with Nick Robinson and, with a couple of hundred yards to run, Robert cried in exasperation: ‘Damn! We’re beat.’
Nick, who had stuck to his original bet on Robert’s Solo Stream, replied: ‘Yes, very boring for you. But you’ve just bloody well won the race!’
‘Who’s won the race?’
‘You have! Solo Stream, your horse, remember?’ replied his long-time cohort. ‘I suppose we had better get down to the winner’s enclosure to meet Eric.’ And they bolted down the grandstand back stairs, chuckling
