After visiting the gaffs it was time for me to take a big step up in class and visit the jewel in the jumping crown, Cheltenham.
Walking to the course wearing trilby, corduroy strides (not red I promise) and green tweed coat I could have easily been mistaken for Rich Ricci (although I suspect dear old Rich would not be walking to the course).
I wanted to get there early as Cheltenham has been subject to £50million investment over the past 18 months. I had been to a meeting once before, years ago, when Alderbrook won the champion hurdle.
Even then at the famous 'festival' it had become impossible to do more than one thing. If you visited the paddock before a race it was difficult to then find a position to view the actual action from. Getting a bet on as well as having a drink was completely impossible (although I concede that was possibly not an altogether bad thing).
On my previous visit I had decided to prioritise viewing the races, so had positioned myself in the stand prior to action. Once in there you cannot move, nor can the person next to you. Normally this would not be such a problem but on that occasion I struck unlucky. The man next to me had obviously had a number of quite large bets that morning, and as the races unfolded it was obvious his staking plan was somewhat less than successful. At least I presume that was the case as he loudly declared after each race that the one of the unplaced horses (I assume the one burdened with his cash) were 'dogmeat, dogmeat, that's what you are, dogmeat.'
Walking from Cheltenham station to the course it was possible to take in the faded elegance of this once genteel spa resort. Beautiful Victorian terraces, some turned into what council planners delight in calling HMO's (homes in multiple occupation) and apparantly engaged in some kind of wheelie bin fertility programme in the front gardens, nestled alongside villas ever so tastefully (and expensively) restored to their Edwardian grandeur.
For a myopic racing enthusiast like me the town of Cheltenham is just about the one thing. The park though was full of young mums out jogging with their all terrain pusg charirs, aparently oblivious to the marvellous sport about to take place on their doorstep. But of course the town is not just about racing. It is also the birthplace of Gustav Holst (was I the only person who thought he must have been born in Germany?) and the host for government eavesdropping. Yes Cheltenham is the somewhat unlikely home of GCHQ, the Beltchley Park of the internet age. Spooks keeping us safe and scaring us in equal measure. At the races I have often positioned myself at 'earwig corner' (i.e. between the paddock and the weighing room trying to pick up gossip snippets from talkative connections) but I could still learn GCHQ.
On entering and viewing the racecourse itself I was struck again by just how complicated the actual track is. Taking the right course must be tricky for an inexperienced jockey, and I gather even after 20 years as champion that Tony McCoy refused to take part in the cross country race for fear of incurring a ban for going the wrong way.
There is certainly no shortage of places to eat and drink at Cheltenham. Competition is good for the customer so as a good Conservative I sad to find my faith undermined - the price of a cup of tea was £2.20 at all of the 20 outlets I checked.
After further diligent research I concluded the best bar by far was one dedicated to 'himself'. The Arkle Bar is a shrine to what for many of us remains the greatest horse who ever set foot on a racecourse. There are numerous press cuttings and momentoes of Arkle's career, and an even an Ankle ale which for a novelty beer was not all bad.
Reading the old press cuttings it was also interesting to see the reports alongside the article about Arkle's derring-do. The Sporting Life of Monday 9 March 1964 told us that jockey Johnny Blair 'broke his false teeth' and was (perhaps understandably) 'badly shaken' in a fall at one of the minor meetings on the same day as the Gold Cup.
Strangely another bar I was forced to check included a large picture of Martin Luther King (I can't believe he ever dreamed of backing a winner here) and possibly just to make me feel at home, an honourable mention of Sussex's victory in the first Gillette Cup.
Even stranger is The Centaur. It is an indoor viewing come conference area which reminds me of visits to the Great British Beer Festival at Earl's Court. There are various real ale stalls in a cavernous conference centre with a big screen which intermittently shows the racing action. It lacks a certain atmosphere but does get louder as the day goes on (for obvious reasons). There are bookies and the tote, and some people spend all day inside without ever venturing out to the track. I saw one lady in the seats on the first floor doing her knitting - and perfectly content she seemed too.
The first race received the additional boost of Ronnie Wood in the paddock to see his well backed (but ultimately unsuccessful) horse, Sandymount Duke, run. The old Rolling Stome was unmistakable, with his 'teenager just got of bed' hairstyle. In noting that quite a lot of 'product' might have gone into Ronnie's jet black look I concede there may have been an elemant of jealousy on my part.
Halfway through the day and my betting plan looked disastrous. One horse brought down when going well, another falling when in the lead and two unplaced favourites (thank you Ronnie) and it was beginning to be an expensive day.
It was increasingly looking like I was going to have rely on the 'lucky' last race, known by some also as 'the getting out stakes' (or more accurately in my case the getting in deeper stakes.'
But rescue from punting oblivion came in the form the new kid on the block, Dan Skelton. This former assistant to Paul Nicholls (and son of Olympic gold medal winner, Nick) has learnt a reputation for improving runners previously with other stables.
In the fifth race Skelton had entered Mister Miyagi, previously trained by Emma Lavelle. Emma had a luckless time of it last season, not as she was a young admirer of Margaret Thatcher my socialist friends, but because of a virus. Therefore not only was the horse likely to improve because of the Dan Skelton effect, it could doubly improve now it was virus free.
I lumped on (alright staked £20) at what I thought were generous odds of 13/2. Unbelievably the price then plummeted as a sustained gamble took the price down to 7/2 at the off. For once a gamble I was (admittedly accidentally) involved with paid off as Mister Miyagi was always going well before powering away up the Cheltenham hill for a comfortable win.
Obviously I cooly waited an appropriate time before collecting, hoping to hear whispers from punters on the next race about the 'shrewdie' who had been on at top price - maybe even a louder 'call the coppers' as I took hold of my new wedge. No harm in dreaming!
As for the new stand, to be officially opened before next month by the Princess Royal (it will bear her name), it looks impressive.
Even better is the associated work which enables a panoramic view of the paddock. This will all be much better for the big crowds flocking next which to what we are supposed to call the Open Meeting, but many of us still know as the Mackeson (every nan's favourite drink).
My visit confirmed Cheltenham is in rude health, with the only downside that the Festival will dominate talk and all lazy TV pundit chat even more from now until March.
Cheltenham marks (out of 10)
Welcome/friendliness 6
Atmosphere 9
Betting ring (size, competitiveness) 9
Racecard (cost, quality) 6
Queues for bar 8
Viewing 9
Standard of racing 9
Total (out of 70) 56
Punting success - profit!
