天色渐渐暗下来，夕阳把大地染成淡淡的金棕色。暖风吹拂下，我把衣领松开，转身缓步往回走，把周边所有树木都留在身后的暮色里。它们或许也在目送我，照例把那些有关生命、生发的腹稿，继续含在抿紧的苞唇里，只是在春风吹过时，每根枝条的顶端都争相报以会心的点头致意。
There are times when it feels as though the entirety of British horse racing exists in a state of perma-gloom, bewailing an ageing fanbase, declining attendances and a moribund, factional leadership. It is, so the narrative goes, a sport in slow but irreversible decline, waiting for the inevitable moment in 10 or 20 years’ time when someone finally comes along to turn out the lights.
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