A Night at the Races

Every Wednesday evening Hong Kong’s Happy Valley is floodlit for the races. For those of you who think flat racing goes on only in the suburban or semi-rural surrounds of places such as Ascot, Epsom or Newmarket, think again. Hong Kong is the new equine capital and the perfect place for a flutter on the nags.

Happy Valley racecourse is built on a one time swamp. The British spotted its potential as a racing venue in 1845 and threw out the local rice growers, it being the only space on the island flat enough to race a horse. It is now surrounded by skyscrapers.

Whilst the horses may wonder what has happened to the trees, I find myself wondering if local residents watch the horses from their living rooms on the 37th floor. Do you move to Happy Valley because you love horse-racing or do you secure a nice flat and on moving in say to your beloved, “Gosh, look at the view Darling, I can just make out 14 horses racing round a swamp!” Without doubt it is the best tended grass in the whole of Hong Kong. I rather wish they’d let my boys play football on it between race nights but my husband says it is sacred turf and that football might spoil it. I expect the galloping horses take their shoes off before they enter.

We took seats on a high balcony where for less than a tenner we were entitled to drinks and the half-buffet supper. I was rather intrigued by the half-buffet. Where was the other half? And was it better than our half?

We had requested seats in the open air but this is far from being the norm if you are Chinese and committed to gambling as many appear to be. In 2007/08 betting turnover from horse racing alone was HK$68 billion.

In the comfortable air-conditioned interior behind our balcony there were a variety of seating arrangements; some like aeroplane seats in rows facing the in-flight entertainment and others, more exclusive, with small screens attached to the table tops so you can face your partner over dinner and glance sideways to see who won the Anniversary Cup, or more importantly, if you won squillions of dollars on your last bet. These gamblers give the impression they spend a night at the races without even seeing a horse for, spread out over the tables and chair arms are newspapers and sheets of information, racing odds and betting guides. Hard-core types pour over their statistics tracking the performance of horses with extraordinary names and working out if the odds are more favourable for a quinella, a tierce or a trio bet.

Quite different is the atmosphere at ground level. It is from here that the expat spectators choose to view the races and each other. A buzzing social scene exists around the various hospitality tents and bars where sleek, long-legged fillies toss their manes and vie for the attention of thoroughbred males.

I tried a number of tactics to win the cost of a flight home to London; selecting first the horse’s name I liked most and then the one I liked least. Getting more technical as the night went on; I tried track work rating, horse win statistics, trainer and jockey. All to no avail. Then we ventured downstairs to the paddock and took a look at close quarters. My friend who knows about horses said they ought to look as though they’ll fly. If they do it’ll give the residents on the 37th floor a shock, I thought.

We left a few dollars out of pocket having won not a bean. Fortunately the huge sums I had assumed we were gambling turned out to be very small, courtesy of the 14:1 exchange rate. Having won nothing I wondered how on earth I could get addicted. But then again, I might have more luck next time….