THE HERMITS OF SALISBURY PLAIN. In a day and age, where the tentacles of the mass media spread to the farthest reaches of the planet, where there can be no escape, it's all too easy to be lulled into a false sense of superiority about the world in which we exist. Everything is bigger, faster and safer than its predecessors. Where once a clogged artery meant death, today it just means a short period in hospital after a bypass or stent. Worst case, if the heart is all but crapped out, we'll just bung in another. We live in an amazing time. People sit in cars that exceed the speed of sound and men walk on the moon. Sure some of us are on record as lamenting the past, but in reality, how many of us would return to it? I know I wouldn't. Black and white televisions with poxy small screens, no phone in the house. Not for me the walk to the corner to make a call. And who in all honesty can put up their hand and confess to loving a quick dash to the outside dunny on a cold, rainy night? The romanticism of the past is all fine and well, but I'd rather have the practicality of the present. What the ****? Romanticism is just a state of mind anyway. And my mind allows me the option of sentimentality when ever I choose to exercise it. I love now. If people saw me going back into the past, they would see me chucking a pinkie, kicking and screaming, and being dragged as I went. But this doesn't mean that history isn't full of momentous events, which can install in us a sense of awe. So, what has all this to do with racing? Well I'm glad you asked, at least I hope you did. It all has to do with the punt. For me, I've always felt a bit strange that the bets we see attributed to a race, for the most part, seemed pretty small. A lot of them are in sums of less than a thousand pounds. I keep thinking. Is this all there is? Where are the serious punters? I suppose they must be out there some place. Maybe they just want to keep a low profile. Of course some of the mega onslaughts find their way into the media. The deeds of one Barney Curley being a prime example. Yellow Sam was run in adverse conditions in an effort to lessen his weight for the target race at Bellewstown, where the course was almost devoid of outside contact. With the only phone in the hands of a Curley cohort, what ever happen on course, stayed on course. Ten minutes before the off, the phone handler called half a dozen contacts who in turn contacted ten to twenty others who were stationed in betting shops across the country. Yellow Sam managed to get home by a couple of lengths, and Barney Curley's 15,000 pounds suddenly turned into 300,000. A sum equivalent to about 1,700,000 Euros today. A magnificent sting, by any standard. But does this brilliant effort of a modern age, represent a the pinnacle of all plunges? In this case, is today's effort bigger and better than anything that's gone before it? Not even close. I have no idea where the top of the tree is, but it most certainly doesn't reside in Mr. Curley's back yard. I can't be sure that it belongs in Druid's Lodge either. But if not, it must be in the neighbourhood. For those who know nothing of Druid's Lodge, it was, and maybe still is, a stable complex on the Salisbury Plain. In its time, it has been the centre of some of the largest betting onslaughts in the UK. At the turn of the last century, from about 1900, for a decade or so, those who stood behind the Druid's Lodge establishment, were referred to as the Confederacy. The Confederacy were heavy hitters. They were led by an Old Etonian gold speculator named Percy Cunliffe, a monster of a man, some twenty stones in weight. And a miserable bastard at that. Another was Wilfred Bagwell Purefry, a breeder of flowers and racehorses. He was also heavily onto a company called Autostrop Safety Razor, one of the leaders in the burgeoning field of whisker stripping. Captain Frank Forester, an Irish Master of the Hounds, Irish vet Holmer Peard and another Etonian Edward Wigan made up the rest of the crew. Together they and all who worked for them, were known locally as the Hermits of Salisbury Plain. And for good reason too, the place was like a prison. So covetous of their privacy were the masters of the establishment, that they had all outgoing mail censored and staff were bedded down behind padlocked doors at night. What happened on the plain, stayed on the plain. In early 1903 they launched their first heavy barrage. A full broadside that would send bookies running for cover in years to come. A horse called Ypsilanti had been bought by the Confederacy from the American crook Richard Croker, after a nice win. They had then taken out the 1902 Chesterfield Cup before being set for the 03 Kempton Park Great Jubilee Handicap, a race that would cement their place in racing folk lore. Confederacy money came from everywhere. Ypsilanti's price was smashed from 25-1 into 7-2, ripping from bookmakers, a sum equivalent to 4,000,000 pounds today. As significant as this coup was though, it was just a precursor to a couple of plunges that could only be described as breath taking in their audacity. These two massive onslaughts would be carried out in successive years, on the back of the same animal, the filly Hackler's Pride, in the same race, the 9 furlong Cambridgeshire Handicap, run over the straight Newmarket course. She would be one of only 6 horses to do the double since 1839, and the only one to net her connections somewhere in the vicinity of 20,000,000 pounds in today's terms, from the punt. Two tranches of about 10,000,000 each. The first assault in 03 was an absolute master piece. It seems that Hackler's Pride may have had just the one run in Ireland, but of that I can't be sure. Knowing that she had ability, Holmer Peard stepped in and bought the filly on behalf of Captain Forester, who in turn passed her on to Percy Cunliffe. Once safely in the hands of the Druid Lodge Confederacy, Hackler's Pride was then subjected to half a dozen runs in conditions that weren't in her best interests. While not exactly criminal in their behavior, they were certainly duckers and divers of the first order. So much so, that by the time their target race, the Cambridgeshire Stakes, hove into view, her form was abysmal. The handicapper had little option but to pitch the filly into the race with a miserly 6 stone 10 pounds on her back. The Confederacy wanted to leave as little to chance as possible. To that extent, they even contoured a patch of turf, on the deserted high ground of Salisbury Plain, to mimic the characteristics of their appointed course, the Rowley Mile at Newmarket. Hackler's Pride made good use of it, she worked the house down. All they needed now was someone made of just skin and bones to take the seat. They had just the man in young Jack Jarvis, the apprentice from Ireland. As an interesting sidelight, Jarvis would go on to have an illustrious career in his own right. After giving up the saddle, he'd turn his hand to training, with much success. He'd train for the Royal family, win three 1000 Guineas, three 2000 Guineas, the Epsom Derby twice, a St Leger, an Ascot Gold Cup and an Eclipse. He would be the first man in the twentieth century to be Knighted for his services to racing. When it came to the punt, it wasn't just a matter of entering Hackler's Pride for the Cambridgeshire Handicap and hurling fists full of cash at it. After the massive Ypsilanti tilt, London bookmakers, understandably, were in no mood for more of the same. The last thing they wanted was again to have their arses reamed by the feared Hermits of Salisbury Plain. What they wanted, and what they got though, were two different things. What was called for here, was the old three card trick, or in this case, the three horse trick. If a lone stable representative took to the course, then there was every chance that its price would be posted on the safe side. But if the Hermits went in on multiple fronts, then hopefully they might be able to stick in the knife before the victim even knew he was in danger. This though, is where the story becomes a bit murky. Most reports on the proceedings mention nothing of the other two runners entered by the Confederacy, they merely make mention of the enormous plunge unleashed by the yard. But another states a rather strange turn of events. According to this communique, there existed at the time, a rather odd betting arrangement, whereby if a stable entrant was declared a non runner, all bets on the animal were transferred to the other stable representative. The report stated that the Hermits hit all three runners, sending the London bookmakers into apoplexy. Then when they unloaded, the stable scratched the other two runners, which then saw the bets unloaded onto Hackler's Pride. It all seems a bit too fanciful for mine, but as I know nothing of those days, I can't entirely rule it out. I think I prefer to believe that they just hammered the filly who went into the race as a 25-1 shot. By the time the field jumped away, the price of Hackler's Pride had been belted down to 9-2. She stepped away as the favourite. With a ten million pound return riding on the outcome, the field was turned loose on the famous Newmarket course. The flying Hackler's Pride left the start with a wing on every foot. Making light of the postage stamp on her back, she charged straight to the front and defied them to run her to ground. Down the Rowley mile she scampered, in an effort to make every post a winner, and as she did so, the groans of the London bookmakers grew ever more intense. Ridden to perfection by Jack Jarvis, Hackler's Pride left nothing to chance, she coasted to the line with a handy three lengths up her sleeve. So easy was the win, that a leading publication of the day, said the three lengths may well have been thirty three. She would return the following year, where again she'd be backed off the map, and again be too good.
Cyclonic, a magic story! Ironically I heard all about Hackler's Pride when I was about ten years old- my father used to talk about Jack Fallon, his trainer, and their gambling 'syndicate' as he called it. Although Hackler's Pride was about 5 years before my father was born, it must have been quite a well known story. My father was in the cavalry, based at Tidworth on the Salisbury plain, and apparently the Druid's Lodge Confederacy was famous, especially in those parts. "Everything is bigger, faster and safer than it’s predecessors. Where once a clogged artery meant death, today it just means a short period in hospital after a bypass. Worst case, if the heart is all but crapped out, we’ll just bung in another. We live in an amazing time. People sit in cars that exceed the speed of sound and men walk on the moon. Sure some of us are on record as lamenting the past, but in reality, how many of us would return to it? I know I wouldn’t. Black and white televisions with poxy small screens, no phone in the house." Cyclonic, I've thought about this on the odd occasion, even though I don't like living in the past. Personally, I preferred it. Yes, life tended to be black and white- and sod the 'greys!' Yet I preferred the "clarity" of those days. I also think people were more free- they were more disciplined and respectful of the freedoms of others, as opposed to just exercising their own wishes; and to me, that's more important in a social context. Anyway, I've wandered off the point. Must go and hit a few golf balls! Good Article, Cyclonic!
Thank you gents. There can be no doubt that manners of today are not a patch on those of the past, with the exception of the good folk here.
Another great read Cyclonic... I must admit i did laugh at the name of Wilfred Bagwell Purefry... We just dont see people with names like that anymore...!!! Unless your a supposed Hollywood star who calls your child Apple, Truffles or some other item of kitchen cutlery...
Frank Zappa's boy was indeed called Moon Unit... But i think he changed it by the time he turned 18ish... At least you woudlnt forget his name if you met him... I bet a very high percentage of people if asked who was Moon Units dad would know the answer... hehehehehe...
Jack Fallon is my great grandfather... my grandmother Blanche Margaret Fallon moved to Australia when she married an Australian Soldier. Racing is very much in our blood. I am extremely proud of my great grandfather.. and I enjoy reading about him. If anyone has anymore websites that contain information about Jack, please let me know. Thank you.
It came as a complete surprise to see this piece crop up again. I'm glad you enjoyed the read Adnael. Beats me how you found the piece, seeing as it was posted a little while ago. I can't remember where I came across most of the information, but if I can track it down, I'll send it to you.
Cyclonic: Great, great story. Jack Jarvis was one of my dad's favourite trainers (along with Atty Persse), and was mine too. Wilfred Bagwell Purefry is right out of one of Ken Follett's middle-ages epics, either "The Pillars Of The Earth" or "World Without End", take your pick. Agree, things are indeed better nowadays, but I do miss a few things. In the old days, Timeform (here I go again!) really, but really, meant something. Phil Bull gave as much advice (always with clarity, and with great knowledge) as he possibly could, and then invited you, the reader, to make your own decision. It's not the same nowadays. Also. miss the flea-weights we used to have in handicaps. 6-7 with a 7lb allowance*. Bloody marvellous! *(Check winner of 1947 (?) Manchester November Handicap - Result: Regret 6-0, 66/1 (or 50/1, no matter) ridden by a Master J. Walker (7lb allowance off the 6-7 handicap weight). Yes, I had a bob e/w on the filly with my mum, who was reluctant to pay out, till my dad told her she had to!).
that was brilliant cyc. wasn't sure it was real at first. where did you read it, I'd love to learn more? as for moon unit, well I know summat there. he is actually a she, now goes by the name of moon.
Yeah it's true Ches. I had to cobble the story together from a whole lot of scraps of information. It took me days to get the info in the piece. There is a paperback out there called "The Druid's Lodge Confederacy: The Gamblers Who Made Racing Pay." by Paul Mathieu. It would be a nice read. Once away from the fantasy stuff, most of what I post as an article is as close to the facts as I get get. (Of course I try to lift it along a little to try to made it an interesting read. But they are true stories.)
