ternoon, with me punching the air and act-
ing up in my white sunglasses and hobnail
boots as if I'd just won the race.)
I was also at the course in late-February
2011 for the Listed Grand Prix which ends
the meeting, the thyme- and pine-scent-
ed air of January by now having given way
to the sweet pungency of the lurid yellow
mimosa trees. In the big race was a five-
year-old handicapper running in the silks of
Sheikh Fahad from Qatar – at the time, the
moustachioed and tweed-wearing new boy
of the racing world. His horse ran an honest
third, and I was disappointed for the Sheikh
that he hadn't been able to see him win
Black Type on such a fine-smelling after-
noon. Astonishingly, the horse who couldn't
win at Cagnes-sur-Mer ended the year with
the Melbourne Cup and Hong Kong Vase to
his name – which is of course Dunaden. But
Dunaden, who earned almost $7 million on
the track, is neither the best racehorse nor,
improbably, the highest-earning ever to set
hoof on the Côte d'Azur. That honour falls
to a horse who scraped home in a maiden
here in 2009, Cirrus des Aigles.
I'll be there for the Grand Prix again this
year, and for as many Januarys and Febru-
arys as I'm lucky enough to get. Perhaps I'll
see you there one day, wearing something
stupid you bought on the Cours Saleya. Till
then, it's encore de rosé, s'il vous plaît, and
back to that daydream...
79
