Эротические рассказы

Frankel. Simon CooperЧитать онлайн книгу.

Frankel - Simon  Cooper


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across the stud, can’t be worth in aggregate more than a single mare or foal. The answer lies in land management. Horses are horribly fussy eaters of pasture. Look at a field grazed by cattle or sheep and it will be lawn-like; evenly cropped. But a horse paddock will be an unsightly patchwork of the tightly eaten, the almost bare, rank looking tall grass and thrusting weeds. Cattle on the other hand eat it all, keeping the grass both healthy and fertile.

      After shock of the incongruity, the cattle soon become part of the scenery; it is really the groups of foals and mares that draw the eye. If you thought the idyll Anna Sewell describes in the opening chapter of Black Beauty was fantasy, think again: ‘While I was young I lived upon my mother’s milk, as I could not eat grass. In the daytime I ran by her side, and at night I lay down close by her.’ This picture-book tale of contented mothers, in the bloom of maternity, letting long-legged foals suckle, idly wafting tails to disperse the first few flies of spring, actually exists. The groups of six or eight are loosely circled both for companionship and out of some long-inherited knowledge that they are safer when in together. Occasionally, a brave foal wanders to the periphery, but a single look or a low snort will draw it back into the fold. The foals are mostly still young – a few days to a few months – and their coats raggedy, with clumps of hair, in contrast to the smooth sheen of the mothers. In time that will change. For now the world offers the sort of great adventures only a young foal would appreciate within the confines of a paddock: fluttering butterflies, buzzing bees and overly bold crows who strut from one fresh horse hoof divot to the next in search of newly exposed worms.

      As you approach, the security is discreet but impressive. Twenty-four-hour-a-day guards monitor every arrival and departure. Cameras look upon you. Gates glide open. There is something a little James Bond about it all as the driveway welcomes you, lined with statues of the Coolmore greats. It might seem a little over the top, but behind these gates lie assets. Though they may be in horseflesh form, that is indeed what they are: as valuable as currency, diamonds or works of art, demanding the same level of protection. You think I’m exaggerating? You’ll see.

      My first meeting with Galileo is altogether more friendly than with his famous son. Maybe that’s just a reflection of age; the young buck versus the sage old man. For at just past twenty years of age, Galileo is getting on a bit these days. Perhaps he has mellowed. His groom Noel Stapleton tells me he is incredibly laid back and easy to handle. No quirks. No oddities. Just a particular love of having his teeth and gums rubbed. He arrives in the yard wearing an anonymous green, waterproof horse blanket, with piped red edging. It is early April. The days are still chilly and damp. The trees still bare. Galileo likes to keep dry and warm. It is hardly a big ask for one so valuable.

      As Noel goes to strip off the blanket, I feel tempted to say don’t bother. Let the old man be. But Galileo seems up for the inspection. Clearly he doesn’t know how little I know as he pricks his ears, looks me in the eye and nods his head in my direction as if by way of greeting. I keep silent as this amazing stallion is exposed, because I know I really want to see Galileo in the raw. Measure him in my mind against his son. Or maybe I should be measuring the son against the father?

      As with Frankel, I have the insistent urge to do more than just rub my hand along the horse that had sired not only the greatest racehorse ever but a plethora of other champions. Being petted and handled is almost in the DNA of thoroughbreds; from the very first day of birth it is something they become accustomed to. In fact, they almost expect it. Good horse handlers make a point of it. It becomes a conditioned response for both horse and human. So I take Noel’s tip and rub Galileo’s gums. It is true, he really does like it. And like many a horse he revels in the attention, though what he thinks of the meaningless babble of words I mutter, I do not know. But he takes it all in good part. It has happened thousands of times before, and will, God willing, happen thousands of times again. But, and we have to be realistic, he is coming towards the end of a truly epic life at stud.

      Winning two Derbies is an impressive achievement by any measure, but if we are being truthful Galileo would only just make it into the list of the top one hundred racehorses of all time. His short burst of a racing career, allied with that famous bloodline, would suggest at the outset solid and successful years at stud. But horse genes are a peculiar thing.


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