THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO ST MICHAEL

Mick Easterby at 75

As Mick Easterby celebrates his 75th birthday today, Tom O'Ryan drops in on the legendary trainer for a private audience

Tom O'Ryan (from the Racing Post)

VISIT an elderly trainer to sit around a blazing fire, chatting about the good old days? Get real. It was never going to happen, was it? Course it wasn't. Not with Mick Easterby. Grab your wellies. Ditch your notebook. Ignore tried-and-trusted interviewing methods. What you're going to hear - like it, or not - is the gospel according to St Michael of Sheriff Hutton, an educational epistle, a lesson in life. And it's not for the faint-hearted, nor those lacking in stamina.

"Come on, jump in," shouts racing's renowned Artful Dodger, as he rams his overworked and mud-laden four-by-four into gear and lurches towards the gateway while the passenger door is still hanging open. With Easterby at the wheel, it's a mystery tour, a journey of discovery. In all areas.

"I'll tell yer sum'it," says Yorkshire's very own son, completely ignoring my first question. "There's a lot o' folk wi' more brains than I'll ever have, but they just can't put 'em to any use. When you're young, you should borrow as much money as yer can' put a millstone round your neck. You need to be hungry, to get up in a morning, to work hard to pay it off. But it's pressure yer see' most folk can't 'andle it. The fellas with too much confidence, but not enough ability, go bankrupt and the ones with enough ability, but not enough confidence don't go anywhere, because they're afraid to borrow anything. It's finding the balance. I'm lucky. I thrive on pressure, and I've found that balance. You've got to be positive in life, not negative. And yer know sum'it else?" he adds, grappling with the steering wheel, as he goes from tarmac road to stone-track to grass field, "you've got to take risks - calculated risks. That's what I've done, all me life."

"But what about...?" My next question goes the same way as the first. "Jump out," says the man who has trained roughly 2,500 winners, as he pulls into a farmyard and disappears into a barn. Inside, there are two horsewalkers in action, and two horses being ridden, awaiting their trainer's attention.

Within seconds, we're in the middle of a huge sand ring, enclosed by ten-foot high boards. "Kick on, go and jump it," says Easterby, waving his arms and instructing Thomas Greenall and Stefan, his foreign colleague, to tackle the cross-poles around the outside. Around they go at the canter before three bright-blue plastic barrels are added to widen the obstacle. The horses continue jumping. Three more barrels are added, then a further three. "On you go," he hollers. "Kick 'em in ... then sit on 'em ... get 'em to relax."

The two horses were recruited off the Flat last autumn. "Came from Newmarket. Sour as buggery when they arrived," says Easterby, "but they're coming now. What yer need to get 'osses to use themselves is to go long, not high," he adds, nodding towards the barrels. "Width is what yer want. That way, yer get 'em to stretch."

Easterby tends to have his interviewers the same way. Take your eyes off him for a moment and he's disappeared around the next corner. This time, it's into a fold-yard. Horses are independently and spaciously housed, but are separated only by a single electric wire. "We started off using two wires, but then they'd roll and get caught up in it, so now we use just one. Brilliant it is. Look how relaxed they are. All o' these in 'ere are either box-walkers, crib-biters or windsuckers ... or they were," he insists. "They don't walk in here, and they don't crib-bite either," he says, pointing to another electric wire, strategically placed to ward off horses with offensive habits.

Up to their knees in fresh straw they are, on a deep-litter bedding. "You can feel the heat when yer stand on it. We muck it out about four times a year wi' a tractor-and-trailer," explains Easterby. "Days of muckin' out by hand are gone. All our boxes now can be opened at the front to allow the tractor in. I designed 'em meself. I like inventin' and designin'. It's me hobby. Another hobby is layin' gallops. I've tried 'em all - woodchip, dirt, mushroom compost, pig-hair, sand-and-plastic, rubber, the lot."

Seconds later, we're into another barn. This time, horses are housed two-by-two. "They 'ave to be compatible, yer know. You can't just put any two 'osses together. But once you've found two that get on, they love it, love the companionship."

Easterby quite likes it himself. "You don't need to spend a lot of money to enjoy yer life," he says. "It's good company yer need - and good neighbours."

Truth be told, Easterby's neighbours are few and far between, given that he seems to own virtually everything we can see' hundreds of rolling acres, farms, houses, the whole caboodle. It wasn't always the case.

"When I first came here in 1955, I had a grand in my pocket, a rented yard and about 12 'osses. Every morning at six o'clock, I used to take me 'osses into a farmer's field and gallop 'em. Gospel truth, I did it for four years and the farmer who owned the field never knew I'd done it."

These days, he's assisted by his son David, who also has his own team of point-to-pointers. "He's doin' well. We both have strong views, but that's good. I like people to disagree with me. It means they've got an opinion. What yer do when you're workin' together is give and take a bit, find some equal ground."

Back in the four-by-four, there's no equal ground for questions. Only answers. About anything and everything. "I'm not an Easterby, yer know. I'm a Patterson. That's my mother's side."

"Is that spelt Patterson, or Pattison?" I ask.

"Buggered if I know," he replies. "He was a cattle-dealer, butcher and farmer, was my mother's father - probably the first man in Thirsk ever to own a car - and I was told years ago that I was his double, the way I go on, everything I do, everything I say."

What Easterby says tends to come clean off the top of his flat-capped head. "The secret to success in business, yer know, is to be able to weather a storm, to keep yer nerve when things get tough," he insists, before swiftly, and typically, switching subjects. "The thing about 'osses is, if you want 'em to last, you can't train 'em at 100 per cent all o'the time' you've got to train 'em at 80 per cent. Yer know why? Because you'll either do their brains in or break 'em down."

Easterby is a remarkable man, a one-off. Blunt and bold, wise and witty, crude and colourful, his reputation for being able to sell ice cream to eskimos and sand to the Arabs speaks volumes for his dealing qualities, his eye for a bargain. His 1,000 Guineas heroine Mrs McArdy was one of a ten-strong job-lot he bought for £6,000, while Lochnager, his European champion sprinter, was picked up for a mere £600. Easterby is off again.

"I just love buying a cheap 'oss and making it a good 'oss," says this experienced stockman. "I don't like paying too much for 'em. It's too risky, if they're no good, or they go wrong. And 'osses do go wrong all the time. Mind, I'm brilliant at trainin' bad-legged 'osses. What you need is a steep 'ill. Five short canters a day. Can't tell you any more than that, not if it's going in't paper."

We've arrived at yet another farmhouse he's refurbishing. Soon to be finished, it'll come complete with underfloor heating and a conservatory that could house a sixseater plane. That's not all.

"Beautiful, isn't it? Look out o' that window," instructs Easterby, before he disappears up a steep ladder. "You can see for miles, can't yer? Yer could stand there all day, taking that in. I love buildin', yer know, changin' things. And I love farmin' too' it's so relaxing. If you just trained 'osses all o'time, it would do your 'ead in. I'll tell you what else I love ... beer. Two pints I have every night, just to switch off. It's crucial is that, to switch off. It's me mind, yer see, it's always racing."

So is Easterby. Quite how many horses he's got, he couldn't say for sure. But he'd soon know if one were missing. He marches across to yet another barn. Inside are ten yearlings. He tips two bags of cubes and two buckets of oats into a big trough. "We give 'em cattle minerals as well," he says. "There's a lot o' nonsense talked about feeding. It's not difficult, there's nowt to it. We just fill 'em up, let 'em eat when they want. The point-to-pointers David's got now, we give 'em just one big feed a day. I'm thinking about doing it with all o'mine. I've analysed it, studied it. They'll go back to it five or six times in 24 hours, and pace their eating instead of gorging themselves. They've got small stomachs have 'osses, they're grazers by nature. Did yer know that?"

Easterby is very much at one with nature. "I love it," he says, "being out in't open air. Even now, after all these years, I can't wait to get out in a mornin'. Life's a challenge isn't it? It's excitin'. What I do isn't work' it's a way o' life."

Cold meat, chips and a mug of tea are on the lunch-time menu in the kitchen. "I love beef, and I absolutely adore stew and dumplings," he says, smacking his lips, before he goes off on yet another tangent. "My grandfather on the Easterby side was a blacksmith. He was also a bare-fist boxer. He was Miles Henry, same name as our Peter," he says, referring to his legendary brother, of Sea Pigeon and Night Nurse fame. "He got called Peter when he was young by a girl who worked for our mother. It just stuck and nobody knows him as anythin' else."

The pair of them originally spent time with their uncle, Walter Easterby, a picture of whose first-ever winner - Pure Scandal, ridden by Sir Gordon Richards at Thirsk in 1933 - takes pride of place in the office.

"He was a bloody good trainer was Walter, but he'd give you anythin' bar money," says Mick, between mouthfuls of beef. "I remember me and another lad going off with some 'osses to Newmarket for three days. Ten-bob (50p) is what he gave us for grub and digs. Amazing, in'it, when you think back?"

He also thinks back to how proud he was when he got his first pair of "big ginger" jodhpurs, made of cavalry-twill' how he used to go 'tatie'-picking in his youth' and how he'd sell bags of apples on the market, putting freshly picked ones on top of crab apples to fool unsuspecting customers. "I suppose you're born tricky, aren't you?" he jokes.

It's not looking back, though, but looking forward that Easterby is more concerned about. His ambition and enthusiasm still burn strong.

"Racing's changed, course it has, and not necessarily for the good," he says. "But you've got to adapt, move with the times. The old days are gone, the young days are 'ere.

"The best man to train for is still a farmer, because he understands stock, but there's fewer of 'em about now with horses. Owners are different nowadays, a different breed, but you just get on with it, go with 'em."

Mick Easterby grabs his cap and his coat. He's got things to do, people to see, phone calls to make, horses and cattle to check, miles to drive. "When I look out of my office window, I look up at the churchyard," he reflects. "I gave 'em a lump o' land to make sure they let me in when I do eventually go - or maybe I should I say 'if' I go..."

With that, he disappears again, still spreading his gospel at 75.