HOMESTYLES OF THE RICH & GATED - FRANCESCA BOWYER AT DEAUVILLE'S SPORT OF KINGS

Shortly the streets will be busy with shoppers filling extravagant boutiques. Sidewalk restaurants will be filled with tycoons and horse owners sitting at tables so close they leave no more than an elbows length between them, eating fresh fish and drinking expensive rose wines.

Racing starts at the crack of 2:00 pm. There is a hustled buzz at the intimate Race course, brushed with a bounty of flowers and a movement of vibrant colors all blurred against the rich green of the course soon to be pounded by competitive thoroughbreds from every corner of the globe. Owners and horse trainers don plaid jackets and shirts without ties, their pants ranging in a variety of pastel colors. Some of them are wearing token straw fedora hats. No hats for the ladies, but skirts and slacks, even the odd designer jeans are complimented by accessories from Chanel to Hermes and only a hint of expensive jewelry. Only Sunday is reserved for high fashion dresses. There is a casual undercurrent of extreme wealth. They are smiling, open and welcoming. No need to sport their rank, they are who they are. Just a familiar gathering at another horse race where friendly socializing is enjoyed with appropriate interruptions when it is time to concentrate on the parade of horses with their own horse and its jockey before the race begins.No hats for the ladies, but skirts and slacks, even the odd designer jeans are complimented by accessories from Chanel to Hermes and only a hint of expensive jewelry. Only Sunday is reserved for high fashion dresses. There is a casual undercurrent of extreme wealth. They are smiling, open and welcoming. No need to sport their rank, they are who they are. Just a familiar gathering at another horse race where friendly socializing is enjoyed with appropriate interruptions when it is time to concentrate on the parade of horses with their own horse and its jockey before the race begins.No hats for the ladies, but skirts and slacks, even the odd designer jeans are complimented by accessories from Chanel to Hermes and only a hint of expensive jewelry. Only Sunday is reserved for high fashion dresses. There is a casual undercurrent of extreme wealth. They are smiling, open and welcoming. No need to sport their rank, they are who they are. Just a familiar gathering at another horse race where friendly socializing is enjoyed with appropriate interruptions when it is time to concentrate on the parade of horses with their own horse and its jockey before the race begins.

No hats for the ladies, but skirts and slacks, even the odd designer jeans are complimented by accessories from Chanel to Hermes and only a hint of expensive jewelry. Only Sunday is reserved for high fashion dresses. There is a casual undercurrent of extreme wealth. They are smiling, open and welcoming. No need to sport their rank, they are who they are. Just a familiar gathering at another horse race where friendly socializing is enjoyed with appropriate interruptions when it is time to concentrate on the parade of horses with their own horse and its jockey before the race begins.

Every day brings a new string of personalities, known to many only by virtue of what is printed in the papers. Nationality is underscored by the foray of names gathered in a common denominator of international high bred racing. The conversation is horses, races, winners and losers and of course…. gossip.

The intimate town boasts narrow streets. High walled gardens protect old Normandy homes that are not sold but passed down through generations. Every known designer store is represented, though smaller in scale than those in the bigger cities, yet with enough to entice the flow of the wealthy passing clientele. All is within walking distance to the race course, buzzing with trainers, owners and jockeys in an array of colors so vibrant they would harness the inspiration of any painter.

The daily routine started by meeting my friends Adrian and Leonor Pratt for breakfast in a grand and bustling dining room with French windows opening to inviting terrace views. This was followed by a visit to the race course for meetings with their trainer and observing their horses training for the day’s race. Occasionally, while standing in the midst of the track, my concentration is broken. I quickly step back to the side of the track as I was interrupted by an approaching vibrating thud of a passing jockey and horse readying for their moment of competition later that afternoon. After a walk around the quaint town or on the sprawling beach I would rush back to the hotel to change for lunch at one of the many ‘in’ restaurants with my friends before going back to the track. The afternoon was spent mingling, checking out the horses of others in the owner’s enclosure and time after time resuming our place in the owner’s box to watch the race and pray that the right horse won. Then it was back down to the winner’s circle to grace the winner and jockey with gracious handshakes and complimentary horse talk. Once again thirst was quenched by token flutes of champagne. No time for rest, just enough to run back to the hotel, another quick change for another ensuing evening.

One such evening is for drinks with Barron Jean Dingy which leaves a permanent smile in my heart. He had just finished renovating an old ocean front mansion situated next to the Hotel Royale. It was founded by his grandfather in 1870. He invited us for cocktails and proudly gave us a tour of the new club before settling in a grand lounge with large French windows that filtered the golden light of the oncoming sunset. “It is men only,” he explained in perfect Franco English and puffing a Cuban cigar while we all sipped our champagne, served to us by a butler who visibly wished to remain invisible. “Ladies are permitted only at certain hours. We have rooms upstairs for our gentlemen members to stay the night, but they may not bring their wives.” Viscount Jean Dingy noticed the question mark on my smile. “Ahh but…”he retorted with a wicked grin, “If they wish to bring someone else’s wife, that is permitted!”

He proceeded to recount an incident when a few month before, Prince Charles had been staying at the Hotel Royale. Looking for a quiet place to dine, the Prince wandered next door to the newly opened Jockey Club. He was greeted by the butler who, in frenzied state, asked him to wait in the hall. Quickly the butler ran into the dining room where members were dining. Agitated, the butler explained that the Prince wanted to have dinner, but the Prince was not a member and what should he do. The members spent a short while pondering this dilemma. “But of course,” piped up one of the members, “we will make him an Honorary Member. Send him in!” Having waited patiently tooling with his cufflinks, the Prince was ushered in and welcomed as a new Honorary Member.

Since my arrival from America to join my dear friends and horse owners Adrian Pratt, grandson to Lord Lieutenant of Kent, appointed by the late King of England and his wife Leanore at the Hotel Royale in Deauville, France, it has been five days of nonstop activity.

Deauville’s Hotel Royale is long known as the destination for such dignitaries as international royalty, film industry, business tycoons and jetsetters. Its large high ceilinged entry is decorated with oversized flower arrangements, crystal chandeliers, paneled walls, plush antique seating and domed French windows that give a view of terraces, crocket lawns and the glittering Atlantic Ocean beyond. It is blanketed with overstated décor and understated wealth and maintains a proud elegance. Concierges and staff waft in dark uniform like ghosts ready to materialize only on command, greeting with broad smiles, low bows and outstretched hands in the hopes of the tip they will graciously pretend is not necessary.

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It is after my first night of heavy sleep from my long voyage. My eyes open slowly to the dawdling clop of a horse’s hooves. Excitement instantly dissipates the cobwebs of sleep. I toss back the crisply ironed sheets in my silk damasked Empire room. Opening the taffeta curtains to my balcony, I step out. A lone jockey on his race horse swaggers slowly down a still sleeping side street below. They have just come from an exercise run on the beach some five hundred yards away.

I breathe the salty air and look out to the still desolate stretch of beach with vibrantly colored umbrellas. I am reminded of an impressionist painting by Eugene Boudin. There is a thin film of grey cloud blanketing the city, fighting the warmth of the oncoming sun. No movement in the streets with their Normandy style houses, just the horse and its rider ignoring the squawking of stray seagulls drowning the sing song of sparrows on their early morning mission.

Restaurants spill onto busy age worn sidewalks with international panache. It seems that everyone adapts to the subtitle of Bon Viveur. Waiters greet patrons like long lost acquaintances with a kiss on either cheek and place them at the favorite tables they have chosen for years. Many stop to greet their fellow race going friends. Some are alone, others with wives. A few appear with girlfriends rather than their wives, stealing their way to discrete corner tables at the back of the overcrowded eatery, like invisible spirits trailing behind them hooded stares and hushed whispers. Wines have no price, just quality. Champagne, know as un coup, from Bollinger to Taittinger are substitutes for water to quench the thirsty.

There was another enchanted evening after Sunday’s races, when clothing was formal and horse owners strutted like peacocks. The weather had been less forgiving with foreboding grey skies. Following the mandatory cocktails, we drove for half an hour to a fourteenth century hamlet outside of Deauville through a tunnel of oak and birch trees heavy with rich green leaves baring the weight of the fallen mist. The country road was big enough for, maybe, one car and a passing bicycle. I white knuckled the short voyage as Adrian convinced me, while driving a heady seventy miles an hour, “don’t worry everybody knows this road.” I prayed and thanked God when we finally arrived. It was well worth it. The hamlet was ruled by an old steepled church, with a sixteenth century square overlooking miles of hills sprinkled with manors, chateaus and studs, otherwise known as horse stables. Clearly visible in the vicinity was the estate and stud belonging to the Wertheimer brothers, owners of the couture house of Chanel. The restaurant did not disappoint. It was situated in an old stone building and made up of several rooms set with dining tables. The highly polished oak floors showed the fatigue of time as did to narrow steps leading from one room to another, bowed from the centuries of those who tread on them. We met our friends who already were seated and waiting in the coziest scarlet colored room braced with heavy oak beams, pained Normandy windows looking out to the old church. A massive welcoming fireplace set the background to the room filled with tables dressed with crisp white clothes, expensive silver and flat wear that seemed to have also seen a few generations. It was another four course meal of specialties to the region and more detectible wines. Louis XVI could not have done it better. I was too relaxed to mind the drive back.

Other evenings we met for aperitifs on a rooftop the well known Bar Marius, dress with a corner Shangri-La tent and open air seating surrounded by tree planters, multi-colored flowers and people relaxing with more champagne to ready for the ensuing evening. Once again on to yet another gourmet bistro, another three course meal of delectable French cuisine and more great wines, talk and laughter with a medley of friends until the wee hours of the night.

Five days in Deauville with memories of those who, no more than anyone else, are a lot of fun loving, ordinary people with extraordinary lives and a passion for good friends, good conversation, good food, good wine and good horses.

View from of the winners circle with jockey's lodge

With my winnings in the winner's circle

Written by Francesca Bowyer
All Photographs © & ® 2009 by Francesca Bowyer

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