{"product_id":"a-fine-place-to-daydream-isbn-9781400078097","title":"A Fine Place to Daydream","description":"Twenty-five years after \u003ci\u003eLaughing in the Hills,\u003c\/i\u003e his racetrack classic, Bill Barich tells the story of how he fell in love and found a new life in Dublin, where he was soon caught up in the Irish obsession with horses and luck. Barich travels his adopted country and meets the leading trainers and jockeys; the beleaguered bookies who work rain or shine; and a host of passionate, like-minded fans—from Father Sean Breen, the “Racing Priest,” to T. P. Reilly, whose peculiar betting system turns on a horse’s looks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWitty, philosophical, and vividly written, \u003ci\u003eA Fine Place to Daydream \u003c\/i\u003eis a paean to the real Ireland, a moving tale of a surprise romance, and a thrilling account of a hugely exciting season at the track.“An easy, fluid stylist, Barich writes entertainingly about anything, but in Irish racing he has grabbed on to a good thing. . . . Samuel Johnson could not have said it better.” —\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Like a horse that senses the ability of its rider and responds accordingly, readers know when they are immersed in the work of a master. Barich makes a winning companion–he's warm, funny and relaxed.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post Book World \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Captivating. . . . Mr. Barich recaptures much of the feel and compass of his first narrative of the equine life, once again weaving a broad tartan from scores of interviews with inhabitants of every corner of the horseracing industry.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Wall Street Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The author, who a quarter century ago in \u003ci\u003eLaughing in the Hills \u003c\/i\u003efound inherent majesty in the broken-down plugs that race on the Northern California circuit, embraces Irish jumpers with similar enthusiasm.” —\u003ci\u003eChicago Sun-Times\u003c\/i\u003eBill Barich has lived in Northern California for most of his life. For many years he was a staff writer at \u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e, contributing fiction and nonfiction alike. His honors include a Guggenheim Fellowship and inclusion in Best American Short Stories. He is a Literary Laureate of the San Francisco Public Library and currently lives in Dublin.\u003cb\u003eThe Crossing\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e      Now through the night come the horses. They come from obscure little   villages like Lisaleen and Closutton, Coolagh and Moone, dozing and   possibly dreaming on the long, dark ferry ride from Dun Laoghaire   across the Irish Sea to Wales. They are Ireland’s pride, the finest   jumpers in a country obsessed with jumping, with grand historical leaps   over daunting obstacles, so they’ve been prepared for the trip with the   utmost care. Some have IV drips to balance their electrolytes, others   have been fed exotic Chinese herbs for an energy boost, and almost all   have had their lungs checked for infections, their blood tested, and   their weight recorded precisely, down to the last ounce, to be sure   they have reached a peak of fitness for their annual tilt against the   British at the Cheltenham Festival in England.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    They’ve heard the word Cheltenham countless times, of course, uttered   by their trainers in both delighted anticipation and utter despair, so   it has some resonance for them. It might even have some meaning. Horses   know more than they let on; after all, they’re in touch with elemental   things. In the old days, farmers in rural Ireland believed their horses   could see ghosts. Whenever one stopped dead and refused to budge, they   reckoned a shade was nearby. If you looked between the horse’s ears,   you could catch a glimpse of it, the farmers claimed. To prevent the   fairies from stealing a good horse, they tied a red ribbon to it, or a   hazel twig, or they spat on it. Folklore had it that a wild horse could   be tamed by reciting the Creed in its right ear on Friday, and its left   on Wednesday, until it came to hand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    So the legends go. In truth, horses do live by their instincts, and   those on the ferry understand that because they’re traveling, they’ll   probably be racing soon. Perhaps they can sense a few ghosts on the   horizon, too, since the Cheltenham Festival has been around for a long   while. Originally designed as a showcase for the National Hunt   Steeplechase in 1904, it evolved into a three-day extravaganza that   features twenty highly competitive races over fences and hurdles, ten   of them Grade One championships. (The Festival expanded to four days in   2005.) More than fifty thousand people turn up each day, many of them   ripe with drink and increasingly empty of pocket, and they would raise   a mighty roar when Best Mate, the current wonder horse, shot for his   third straight Gold Cup, hoping to equal a mark that Arkle, the   greatest chaser ever, set in 1966.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    There was a time when you couldn’t walk into an Irish pub without   hearing Arkle’s name. The horse was an institution, a national   treasure. Glasses were raised in his honor, and children around the   world wrote letters addressed to “Arkle, Ireland” that were actually   delivered by the grace of God. Trained in north County Dublin by Tom   Dreaper, a self-styled “humble farmer,” he won twenty-seven of his   thirty-five starts, often carrying twice the weight of his rivals. His   fans cruised by the farm on weekends, eager for a snapshot or just a   peek at him. They were loyal and devoted and could describe his   favorite meal in detail—mash, dry oats, six raw eggs, and two bottles   of Guinness stout mixed in a bucket. They even forgave his owner, Anne,   Duchess of Westminster, for being British and holding a title.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Some experts thought Arkle’s feat would never be duplicated again, but   now Best Mate was on the scene, and every newspaper on the ferry   carried a story about his quest. The stories always mentioned his   superb physical condition—the very picture of a racehorse in the full   of his health, as impressive as any champion George Stubbs ever   painted—and told how the bookies favored him odds-on in 2004, and how   Henrietta Knight, his sweetly eccentric English trainer, had recently   lost two stone on the Atkins diet and couldn’t bear to watch her   darling run for fear she’d see him fall. Her husband, Terry   Biddlecombe, a former jump jockey, also provided excellent copy with   his jokes about Viagra and his gruff but emotional manner. He’d wept in   public when Matey won the Gold Cup a second time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    A victory in the Gold Cup, where a horse must jump twenty-one fences   over a distance of three and a quarter miles, requires speed, stamina,   and faultless execution, but those qualities are worthless without some   racing luck. Even a wonder horse can make a mistake, time a jump badly,   hit a fence, and fall. Knight knew this, naturally, and so did the   Irish trainers dreaming of an upset, such as the canny Michael Hourigan   from County Limerick, who was sending Beef Or Salmon, his stable star,   to the Festival again. A talented but awkward eight-year-old, Beef Or   Salmon had run in the race last year and had fallen at the third fence,   his challenge over before it began. But maybe the horse had improved.   It could happen, couldn’t it? Fantasies have been built on less. The   same might be true of Harbour Pilot from Noel Meade’s yard in County   Meath, third to Best Mate in 2003, albeit by a whopping thirteen   lengths.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Fortunately, the sea is calm tonight, so the horses can rest easy. In   stormy weather, they get spooked at times and need constant attention,   but now the grooms and van drivers can take a catnap, consult their   dog-eared copies of the Racing Post, or stretch their legs on deck,   looking up at a sprinkling of stars and studying the inky water for   omens. They duck into the café for tea or coffee or a quick pint of   beer, comparing notes and hot tips and gossiping about their employers,   airing the dirty laundry while also sharing the lessons they’ve learned   on the job. Some know more about horses than the boss, and many know   less, but they still voice their opinions, regardless of their relative   expertise.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    They talk about the Festival, too, and how important it is, and how   that translates into pressure, stress, and anxiety, all complicated by   the hardships of travel and the brain-numbing effect of a three-day   booze-up. Cheltenham always produces its fair share of basket cases,   but every owner, trainer, and jockey longs to be there in March, if   only once in a lifetime. The jumps season lasts virtually year-round in   both the U.K. and Ireland, but no other event has the same cachet as   the Festival, not even the Grand National, that brutal steeplechase   featured in National Velvet, where little Mickey Rooney booted home a   winner. The prize money is excellent, as well, with the Gold Cup worth   close to four hundred thousand dollars, a sizable purse by the hunt’s   lowly standards, plus the whole affair comes wrapped in   bells-and-whistles—prime-time TV coverage, hype on the grand scale, and   instant celebrity for the lucky few.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    For the Irish the Festival has an extra dimension, though, a metaphoric   value. In their familiar role as underdogs, they accept the   disadvantage of shipping their horses to Cheltenham, glad for an   opportunity to take on their colonizers on hallowed English ground. The   contest is friendly and no blood has yet been shed except by accident,   but every patriot in Ireland prays that the Hourigans and Meades will   stick it to the Brits. The Irish have an extraordinary way with horses,   after all. The earliest invaders from England remarked on how a rider   and his mount appeared to be inseparable, a single creature with   nothing between them, skin-to-skin. Often the rider lacked a saddle and   used a mere snaffle for control, the lightest of bits. Respect for a   horse, empathy with it, those were elemental concepts for the Celts,   who believed that the Otherworld, a place beyond death, was bright and   happy. In their myths, horses transport souls across the divide.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Around dawn, the ferry arrives at the Welsh port of Holyhead, north of   Caernarfon Bay. The grooms and drivers may be grumpy and a little   bedraggled after their hours at sea, but they click right into action   and make certain each animal is comfortable, quiet, and suffering no   ill-effects from the trip. In general, horses manage well on the ferry.   They can stand upright and clear their lungs of mucus, something that’s   more difficult to do on a plane. They don’t usually kick up a fuss,   either, when the overland part of their journey resumes, with the vans   following a route through Anglesey that crosses the border into England   near Chirk, then cuts through the Severn Vale and skirts Birmingham’s   suburban sprawl before dropping south toward Cheltenham and the western   edge of the great limestone escarpment of the Cotswolds.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Eventually, the vans reach Cheltenham Racecourse, a huge complex at the   foot of Cleve Hill. The dutiful grooms, even wearier now, lead their   charges to the stable yard, where an official checks the horses’   passports to confirm their identities, and then to the barns. The   horses are given some water (they don’t drink much on the ferry) and   sniff out their new surroundings before they take a walk over the   course. Today—a Monday—the weather is fairly warm and springlike,   although the sky is overcast, and gradually they relax and lose any   trace of stiffness. They look contented, returned to a world they know.   They’re alert and enjoying the fresh air and the feel of the grass   beneath them, all agreeably familiar sensations, and they recognize   from the cameras and the buzz along the rail that what lies ahead is   far more significant than a simple weekday meeting at home.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    With the Festival scheduled to begin on Tuesday, the racecourse is   besieged. Delivery trucks come and go, e-mails zip through hyperspace,   and callers begging for last-minute tickets (at better than $150 a pop)   jam the phone lines. Letheby \u0026amp; Christopher, caterers to the event since   the 1920s, are laying in around eleven thousand pounds of beef, sixteen   thousand pounds of potatoes, thirty-nine thousand chocolate bars, and   forty-seven thousand sandwiches. Champagne is stacked in cases, the   beer kegs are ready to be tapped. Groundsmen replace divots on the   track and inspect the fences and hurdles for flaws. In the Tented   Village, a bazaar of sorts, merchants are setting up the stalls where   they’ll hawk their wares. Security guards patrol the entire   five-hundred-acre site—no threat, however weird, can be   discounted—while the police prepare for the traditional clash of   merrymakers and pickpockets.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    While the horses walk the course and get their bearings, fans all over   Ireland are packing their bags and departing for the Cotswolds. The   Irish crowd will be large, vocal, informed, and dying for a bet, their   wallets stuffed with cash. Many are repeat visitors, among them   diehards who’ve been staying at the dowager Queens Hotel downtown since   Arkle’s last run, and they can remember rowdier times when fortunes   changed hands at the all-night card games. But there are also plenty of   newcomers pouring into Birmingham Airport, lawyers and plumbers,   teachers and CEOs, all crazy about horses and often at the mercy of   travel agents who broker package tours and must dispatch their clients   to lodgings in faraway towns—to Stratford-upon-Avon, say, or Twigworth   in the middle-of-nowhere.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    There, in a single room at the Twigworth Hotel, you’ll find a gambler   who doesn’t quite fit the mold, being an American—a Californian, to be   precise—although he lives in Dublin now and is just as obsessed with   the jumps as the lads from Kilkenny and Waterford in the rooms around   him. He has a bag filled with form books and notebooks and a corkscrew   should he manage to locate a palatable bottle of wine at the   hotel—there are no stores nearby and no village, and he doesn’t have a   car—and he is looking forward to the Festival in a major way since it   marks the high point of his own journey, one that began back in   October, when he joined the caravan of Irish horses, trainers, and   jockeys to record its progress on the bumpy road to Cheltenham.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Or you could say that the journey really started when he sold his house   near San Francisco and rented a flat in London to freshen himself,   fully expecting to go home in a few months and buy a fishing cabin in   the Sierra Nevada, where he’d rusticate from middle into old age. That   was three years ago, but instead he had the good luck to fall in love   with an Irish woman and the surprising bravery (given his usual shyness   in these matters) to fly to Dublin and pursue her, and now he has a   brand-new life. The move required a leap of faith, but no doubt love in   any form, at any time or any age, demands such a gamble, and at odd   moments he feels a sharp kinship with the horses who, when they take   flight and leave the earth, hang for a half-second in a cloud of   uncertainty before they know what the future will bring.\u003cbr\u003e    \u003cbr\u003e   \u003cb\u003e OCTOBER\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Stirrings\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    It was early autumn when I settled in Dublin to be closer to Imelda   Healy, my new love. Apartments were scarce in the city, so I took what   I could get, a tiny one-bedroom in a fancy gated complex, where the   other tenants were all baby stockbrokers and Chinese students of   English. The building was a tribute to Ireland’s booming economy and   dwarfed the little Victorian cottages on the Dodder River nearby. Our   porter was a fierce-eyed, black-haired rogue, and when he saw me   parsing the Racing Post one afternoon, he gave me a tip on a horse   running at Punchestown in County Kildare. That caused an odd stirring   in me. I felt I belonged.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The horse lost, of course, but that was all right. I wasn’t in it for   the money, not yet. In a way, the porter had opened a gate, and I saw   how uninformed I was about Irish racing compared to the English scene.   In London, I’d fallen into the habit of playing the televised races   every Saturday, rising early and poring over the Post as diligently as   a convict ransacking law books for a loophole to set him free. I liked   the dense columns of statistics, the paper’s oddly poetic jargon, and   the underlying assumption that the puzzle could be solved, and the   brambly nature of existence untangled, if only for an instant.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    While the English are fond of their racing, I discovered the Irish   can’t live without it. Their embrace of the sport is passionate, a   streak of lightning in the blood. Nothing grips them as powerfully as   the sight of horses jumping over hurdles and steeplechase fences, maybe   because it carries an echo of the country’s rural, agricultural   heritage and has the power to touch people, and even move them.   Whatever the case, this was new territory for me, and I took to it so   readily that the flat races began to bore me. Devoted to speed, they   were over in a flash, while a good chase unfolded as leisurely as a   Hardy novel. The jump races were rich in subplots and dramatic   reversals of fate, too, plus they had a pastoral aspect that was   transcendent, and entirely beautiful.","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300405825765,"sku":"NP9781400078097","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781400078097.jpg?v=1767720464","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/a-fine-place-to-daydream-isbn-9781400078097","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}