Our photo of horses on the snow at St Moritz accompanying a piece about pre- Christmas racing at Cheltenham prompted a few wags to write in suggesting it never hacks up that soft in the Cotswolds. Ho-ho. But, as Iain Fletcher explains, the Swiss don’t let such unsound surfaces put them off racing horses or playing, er, cricket.
Think you’ve suffered cold at Towcester or boggy conditions and frost at Folkestone? Well, trust me, that’s nothing. Try racing at -12C on a frozen lake 5,000 feet up the Alps with your nostril hairs frozen like matchsticks. That’s extreme.
Held every February over three weekends, the White Turf events at St Moritz, a resort for European chic and increasingly Russian billionaires, are incredibly glamorous and popular. Though not perhaps with the entire species of furry animals obliterated to keep the 11,000 spectators warm at this year’s opening meet.
From a punting perspective, there are some important differences to UK racing to remember. Obviously, there’s the going. White and firm with a few inches of snow is the norm. Indeed, if it isn’t then the horses had better be good swimmers – the course, stands and car park are on a lake that’s used for boating in the summer.
Also, in some of the races the jockey assumes a rather odd position. In the trotters they sit back in a reclined chariot perched on ski runners, legs spread with the reins stretching back about six feet from the rear of the horse. But in the skikjoring, an event that celebrated its centenary this year, the jockey or rider actually skis behind the horse – similar to water-skiing but with equine power and a cricket box in place to protect the vitals from clumps of flying ice and snow.
Skikjoring? You what?
One local ski instructor, made famous by featuring on BBC1’s Holiday Show some years ago teaching a pouting Patsy Kensit to sashay elegantly down the slopes, talked me through the adrenalin rush of the skikjoring – the close proximity to the other horses, the absolute need to stay upright to avoid a trampling and the fact that at the end of the circuit the riders are completely smothered in slobber. A wistful moment of regret passed across his face when I asked if anything similar had happened with Kensit.
The phrase may be ‘mad dogs and Englishmen’ but I was starting to think that we Brits are much maligned. Surely the Swiss are worse. If you want or need to get somewhere with a horse, just ride the bloody creature! All the English do out there is ski down the mountains and play cricket on the ice. Odd as that last one sounds, I did it and it was great fun – although the temperatures ensure more broken fingers than Steve ‘Grievous Bodily’ Harmison has ever inflicted.
Anyway, punter that I am, I studied the horses for the opening race in the parade ring, spied a grey in the first that was clearly stressed, mused how it would’ve been a perfect lay on Betfair and took my seat in the stand.
The Shhhh-wiss way
A little folding stuff had been wagered – a tote system took all the bets, which totalled in excess of 80,000 Swiss francs for the day – and as the race started I assumed my usual racing position of eyes out on stalks, lungs bursting and voice box bellowing.
Now the Swiss and the Italians who made the majority of the crowd may consider skiing behind a horse as normal, and greet each other with an obligatory three-kiss-left-cheek-first routine, but they do not scream encouragement to their horses.
What they do is sit and watch, each other mostly, which is why so much time and money is spent on looking elegant in the latest fur fashions. Maybe watching the English at race meets started the phrase about the English, because those in my vocal vicinity of about 150 square yards looked aghast at my bellowing. What is normal in Blighty trackside is most certainly not there.
It didn’t do a lot for my horse either who cantered in at such a slow pace I checked to see if it had a skikjoring rider as well as a jockey. But there was English success during the weekend, and I was partly responsible.
Old Chomeleians, a team mostly made up of solicitors from the north London area, won the Cricket-on-Ice trophy with your correspondent as a wily old off-spinner and guest (and former opening bat for Somerset, you ringer! – Ed) The current holders, Winterthur CC, conversed ominously in an array of Antipodean accents, suggesting to me an energetic and excellent team of ex-pats.
I glanced at my fellow players, reckoned that the circuit judge who was our captain had donned too many sweaters or had put on a couple of stone overnight, and decided that a couple of overs patrolling the covers was the ticket for me, supposedly in the action but safe enough away from any hard hits.
It was the final, our mission was confirmed in a Churchillian team-talk, and we settled into position, stamping our feet to ward off the cold. I, hoping the sun stayed out, crouched, acknowledged the skipper as he urged me to stop the quick single and waited for the batsman to take strike. Almost immediately he nudged a ball towards me and screamed ‘Yes!’
Fight them on the… snow
Alert to the chance of a run-out, I sprinted towards the ball but, instead of actually making forward progress, my Timberland clad feet slipped and it was all I could do to stay upright and not measure my length in the snow – one of the hazards of ice cricket, as was the big skier that slogged towards me in the final over. Somehow I’d found myself at deep mid-wicket, or shotgun alley as one other fielder called it. It was broken finger time and I was determined to let the missile bounce.
How to do it, was the problem. A small slip here, Torvill and Dean pirouette there and a desperate late lunge doomed to failure ensured my fingers remained intact. It earned me the wrath of the bowler but I considered that a small price to pay for my digits, and as he continued to moan at my effort I contemplated raising one in his direction. It was my final act in the match as our middle-order duo smashed, scampered and slogged the necessary runs.
Back to the horses, and the other notable success was Salinas, a German-bred horse trained by Milton Harris in Banbury. The Grand Prix Novacan is a trial for the big race of the final meet and Salinas, 5lb overweight led from the start – partly a tactical selection by Harris.
‘I went the year before and I learned the altitude makes a big difference,’ he explained. ‘The horse has to be constitutionally strong, so it’s not best for a young horse, has to stay longer than the actual course and preferably runs up front because horses don’t come off the pace to win out there.’
Salinas did all of this. Ran from the front, never weakened and wasn’t realistically challenged. ‘He’s done well in Germany, has won a couple of novice hurdles over here and is going to win more races,’ added Harris. One to look out for then.
Harris perfectly summed up the White Turf meet: ‘Racing in St Moritz is a fantastic weekend away for the owners. It’s a beautiful setting in the mountains, the organiser Barbara Keller provides grand pianos and champagne receptions on the lake, dinners in the evening and racing celebrities like Lester Piggott, and we get to see the horses run on snow. For the owners it’s an event that cannot be matched elsewhere, it really is that stunning.’
And it’s true – as an event it’s exceptional. Sipping champers while watching the sun reflect off the nearby mountain-tops, pristine in white and dotted with tall pine trees, as the horses sprint around the lake circuit is an experience.
The punting may not be as serious as in England, but next time you’re at a race meeting and the drizzle has seeped through your jacket and the fog is making the far reaches of the course invisible, think of the crisp, clean White Turf and offer up a toast.
Iain Fletcher flew from Stansted into Basle and caught the train to St Moritz, ordering a large brandy on arrival at the Hotel Hauser before being attacked by a St Bernard, who reckoned he needed saving.
WAY TO GO
Flights to Zurich and Basle or even Milan in Italy are the best way and are generally between £100 and £150 return. From all, a train to St Moritz is the best choice, not only because Swiss trains are incredibly efficient but also because they meander through the Alps, making for an incredibly scenic journey.
WHERE TO STAY
St Moritz is a holiday town so there are many hotels. St Moritz Dorf is central town and round the side of the lake is St Moritz Bad, which is about 15 minutes walk or a short taxi ride away. In the main street there are lots of friendly hotels like the Hauser Hotel, run by Markus and Marinda Hauser. Prices average £70 to £100 per person per night – unless you mingle with the Abramovich crowd in Badrutts Palace that overlooks the lake. Expect to pay £250 minimum here for the basic and nearer £1,250 for a suite.
WHERE TO EAT
Most hotels have good restaurants and bars although Cascade is a very pleasant wine bar and restaurant in the main street. The Roo Bar is the venue of choice for apr
