Human beings are a disparate lot. Some say potato, some say potahto. Some like it hot. One man’s feast is another man’s famine. He likes blondes, she likes brunettes. And so it goes. This being the case, there will also, of course, be disagreements about geography. Contrary to popular opinion, not everyone is crazy about Hawaii. There are quirky people who prefer Fairbanks, or so they say. But there are places out there, realms of energy or beauty or solitude, which fascinate most all who visit. If there is anyone extant not smitten by Paris, I haven’t met him. The pulsating electricity of Manhattan affects all who enter. The colorful hills and lakes and music of Austin have enthralled and captured tens of thousands. And then there is the compelling charm of the picturesque Kentucky counties surrounding Lexington, the rural bluegrass, rolling land dotted with thoroughbred horse farms large and small, some vast well-kept properties, others tiny gems tucked into a small niche in the landscape.
If one were to travel there and rise early on a brisk Fall morning, driving the narrow back roads of Fayette or Scott or Woodford or Bourbon counties as the mists began to lift, he would be transported to another world, albeit one which has been there for a very long time, a world mostly invisible to the wider one around it. In this world where age is not a disqualifier, old black men--white ones, too--some in the employ of their patrons for generations, lead spirited horses from barns to their paddocks, moving carefully, wise to the ways of their charges, no haste in their steps. There is a seriousness of purpose here, a recognition that every small step leading to the final product must be taken slowly, carefully. The managers of these operations, some crusty old-timers with a bucketful of knowledge, others surprisingly young but with an unmistakable sharpness to them, observe their horses with a keen eye….looking for a sign, some little clue to encourage their owners. They look just as closely for the first hint of a problem—does that foot need a little correction, should we up the feed on that individual over there?
They discuss these weighty matters over lunch in small towns like Midway and Georgetown and Paris and Versailles—that’s Ver-sales, to you--in little restaurants and coffee shops where the only language spoken is thoroughbred and the principal reading matter is the Daily Racing Form. There are captains of industry dining here but it’s hard to tell them from the men with two mares on five acres, they all have the same dream. After all, just down the road is the Ultimate Shrine to racing, Churchill Downs, home of the world’s greatest horse race, the sacred Kentucky Derby. They have a race track in Lexington, too, of course. It’s called Keeneland, where the locals bring their horses home to race for a few glorious weeks in the Spring and Fall and the entire population of the town turns out to celebrate, roaming the grandstands with containers of bourbon whiskey in hand, firm in the belief that a Kentuckian must support his local distilleries, of which there is no shortage. Keeneland is not your average racetrack, ensconced as it is in rustic surroundings, vast acres of perfectly manicured pastures and criminally scenic byways behind it and to the left and right. The afternoons are semi-social gatherings where attendees meet and greet, dutifully turning to the racetrack when the gates open to pay proper attention to the raison d’ etre. Kentuckians are sufficiently knowledgeable about racing that the Keeneland management historically never saw the need for a race announcer, only deferring to “progress” in April of 1997 when Kurt Becker, still the only man to ever broadcast a race there, entered the announcer’s booth. The feeling was sort of….well, for heaven’s sake, the fans have binoculars, haven’t they, and the jockeys are wearing different colors.
Morning At Keeneland: Heading To The Track
Trail To The Keeneland Barn Area
Windy Corners Restaurant
Pastures At Silver Springs Farm
Showing Stallions At Spendthrift Farm
Spendthrift Memorial To The Great Horse Nashua
Stallion Barn At Spendthrift
Stallion Paddocks, Spendthrift Farm
Sales Pavilion At Keeneland
Schooling Horses At The Keeneland Paddocks
A View Through The Tunnel
Jockeys Hold Plaques Celebrating Stakes Winners At Keeneland Meet
Morning At Keeneland
More Than Just Another Racetrack
A Day In The Life
Men like Bill Mauk, and there are decreasingly few, patrol the colorful backroads of the bluegrass daily, maintaining a keen eye, negotiating these hills with vigilance, thoroughness and curiosity. Bill is a horse broker, you see, and always in search of a diamond in the rough. Such gems are not so easy to find in the heart of thoroughbred country where an owner knows his horses well and is not generally disposed to disperse them at discount rates, but Bill is nothing if not persistent and he finds his share. Then, when Mauk has a horse or two to sell, he is on the prowl for customers, many of which he has earned by dint of his reliable service and an honest assessment of his stock. Everybody in bluegrass country knows Bill Mauk, who has been in turn a blacksmith, a horse trainer and now a purveyor of the flesh, and he is well received in his daily travels and sought for his opinions.
Some people wake up in the dark of morning, stumble out of bed, kick the dog and curse the day ahead. Bill Mauk is not one of these people. “I love my life,” states Bill, merrily. “Driving down these roads, a different route each day, new people to see, looking at horses, trying to find that X on the treasure map. Some days are diamonds and not many are stones. I’ve been at the bottom and I’ve been at the top and I guess right now I’m somewhere in the middle but I’ve never wanted to do much else….live anywhere else. Oh, I look for excuses to take a trip to Ocala in the cold months but I’ll always come back. This is home to me and it’s a good home.” Bill has owned and leased and he currently rents 35 acres, a house and barn for $1700 not far from Georgetown. I met Bill in the early eighties when I was in Kentucky buying yearlings. He came well-recommended as a man who could spot a good—or bad—horse a mile away. Using his sage advice, I bought a half-dozen and eventually sold four of them for a tidy $90,000 profit and kept the other two. For good reason, Mauk might be sought out by a man looking for a horse. He recently travelled to Ocala, in fact, at the behest of some new customers, this time a lively contingent of South Koreans, who bought thirteen. His new buddies invited him to come see them in Seoul some time and he’s thinking about it, but not too hard.
“Can’t afford to be away much, really,” Bill maintains. “Bad for business, too many opportunities missed. I’ve been married twice but the wives couldn’t abide the hours, told me I was more married to the job than to them, and I figure they were right. I guess I’m meant to be single and that’s fine with me. Can’t imagine my life being much better doing anything else.”
It’s an early Autumn morning in the Bluegrass. The sun has just risen on another crisp Kentucky day, the temperatures skimming forty, the humidity nonexistent. The horses are fed, the farm chores attended to and Bill Mauk is rolling through the lush countryside, a smile on his face. After all, today could be the day to find another X on that treasure map. And if not today, well, certainly it will be tomorrow.
Bill Mauk At Keeneland, Contemplating His Day
Current Mauk Farm
Bill Looks Over A Yearling At Silver Spring Farm
The Castle
So you’re driving down Route 60 out of Lexington on your way to Versailles, never been in these parts before. It’s a cheery morning, you whistle a happy tune as you pass by Bluegrass Field, Lexington’s airport, and the hallowed grounds of Keeneland across the highway. And then, as you meander westward, just a few miles down on the right….WHOA!….is that a.…a….a goddam CASTLE? Yup, it is. And a bigass castle, at that, not one of these scrawny little imitation castles rich guys build to impress their friends. How did it get there you might ask, as many others have done. And we’re here to tellya.
Construction on the Martin Castle, as it was originally called, began in 1969, after Rex Martin and his wife, Caroline returned from a trip to Germany where they’d been inspired by the local architecture. The eventual finished product was to have seven bedrooms, fifteen bathrooms a fountain and a tennis court. Then, wouldn’t you know it, the Martins’ marriage floundered in 1975, they divorced and the castle was left unfinished. Over the years, it became a popular oddity, Another Roadside Attraction, subject to all kinds of rumors. In 1988, Rex Martin finally got around to putting it on the market, but died before it was sold for 1.8 million dollars to Thomas R. Post, a wealthy property tax lawyer from Miami in 2003. The new owner thought it would be a cute touch to rename it “Castle Post.” The locals, of course, were all disappointed after years of stories about the castle’s eventual reincarnation as a medieval-themed restaurant or museum.
Then, in May of 2004, after months of renovations, disaster struck the castle. Newly-installed woodwork and wiring caught fire in the main building, causing significant damage. Lawyer Post, fortunately still living in Miami and not the castle, vowed to rebuild, a testimony to the assets of property tax lawyers. Approximately twice the castle’s original cost went toward the reconstruction project, which was completed in 2008. New additions include twelve luxury suites, a library, game room, music parlor, dining hall, ballroom, swimming pool, formal garden, basketball court, bar, tennis court and a partridge in a prune tree. It is now a tourist inn, rarely crowded due to the extravagant rates, but hey—where else can you get a bedroom in a turret? They also offer the place for fundraisers, weddings and corporate functions in case you have any wild ideas.
Oh, and if you’re in the market for castles, you can buy this one for a mere $30,000,000, which is a trifle pricey for a place without a moat. Not to mention the less than sterling condition of the main gate and the lack of flapping pennants from the balustrades, whatever they are. You can probably get it for twenty if you throw in your aging XKE and that dump you’ve been wanting to get rid of in the Hamptons.
That’s all, folks….except to say the lead photo at the beginning of the article is the main barn at beautiful Manchester Farm, taken through the mists of early morning.
