TDN Weekend

Flat racing, which nowadays keeps the ham- ster wheel spinning through the winter on synthetic circuits. In wider society, mean- while, the rural roots of the old rituals have become irretrievably frayed. You don't see many maypoles as you drive round London. As for Easter, the date lurches around the calendar as though governed by far more befuddling indulgences than chocolate eggs. The intoxication of Cheltenham itself, to be fair, often tends to be as literal as it is figurative. Such a vast throng of excited people in one place will inevitably contain a minority who totter groggily out of the track at the end of the afternoon, oblivious to the stirring deeds that have unfolded on the track. These fail deplorably to under- stand that one of the defining joys of the week are the evenings, when friends hun- ker round fires in ancient village taverns to review not just the fortunes of an after- noon of raw, compelling sport in the open air, but often the 51 weeks since they last convened. And for many, at these mellow gatherings, the Festival atmosphere owes even more to the surrounding hill country than to the Regency spa town of Chelten- ham itself. To some of us, in fact, no amount of dra- ma once the racing is actually underway can quite rival the buzz of the Monday night, the eve of the meeting, when thousands of pilgrims – many from Ireland – check into lodgings they book year to year. Scattered through the Cotswolds like an army muster- ing for battle, they nurse a few quiet pints while resolving their last betting dilemmas for the morrow. Someone steps outside for a ruminative smoke, and returns wide- eyed. "It's starting to rain, lads," he ex- claims. "Looks like it's setting in, too." And the formbooks and newspapers are quick- ly spread out once again on the table, and fresh consideration is granted to horses with form in soft going. At that stage, everyone feels invincible. As the week wears on, the few who strike gold will doubtless spend more exuber- ant evenings, but the majority will soon be facing an uphill struggle – no less than the horses charged with their hopes and savings, under which burden they stagger up that famously punishing climb to the winning post. On or off the track, this is no place for faint hearts. That's why so many punters swear such unswerving allegiance to Ruby Walsh, since the departure of A.P. McCoy the unrivalled master of today's jump jockeys. (Whisper it, but for all the records hoarded by his long- 59

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