Despite growing up on the Sussex coast, there is perhaps a small sense of destiny surrounding my connection with Cheltenham and the Festival in March.
Most pertinently, I have relations in Cheltenham; my mother’s older brother, Uncle Jack, and his wife Aunty Jill, have lived there all their married lives and, yes, they do live on a hill. They live on Leckhampton Hill, the road down into the town from ‘The Air Balloon’ pub junction near Birdlip. It’s a long-standing family joke: Jack and Jill up the hill.
So, when a racing-bewitched youngster pleaded for a trip to the Festival in the early 70s, at least we had some free accommodation. Much later, I took a cottage in Prestbury, the village located adjacent to the racecourse’s back straight, when sent to report for The Sporting Life (newspaper) in the Midlands.
Whereas I now enter rooms and cannot remember why, and open the fridge in search of the car keys, I have very clear memories (aged 10) of the 1974 Festival.
It was the year that Pendil, a really smart chaser trained by Fred Winter and ridden by Richard Pitman, was strongly fancied to win the Gold Cup having finished second to The Dikler 12 months earlier.
Unable to afford entry to the grandstand, my Mother and I watched from where the centre course Best Mate Enclosure is now. Mum was a glamorous single woman at the time during what my father refers to as his first “period of exile” (there was a second and, eventually, a divorce), and she attracted plenty of unwelcome attention from male racegoers emboldened by pints of Guinness.
Perched on a rail outside the bar, I couldn’t see much of the races but, when Pendil was brought down by High Ken, a loud groan from the crowd told the sorry story. With the favourite out of the way, the novice Captain Christy and Bobby Beasley raced clear of The Dikler up the hill.
The other clear memory on one of the two days we attended was that the late Terry Biddlecombe, a local hero throughout his riding career, was cheered to the start on his final Festival mount.
Years later, I would get to know Biddlecombe through various filming trips for Channel 4 Racing to his wife Henrietta Knight’s West Lockinge stables as we chronicled the Cheltenham preparations of Best Mate. It was a great story: the two reformed alcoholics falling in love and unearthing a champion racehorse at a remote and rainy Irish point-to-point.
All my hopes for them came to fruition when Best Mate emulated Arkle by winning a third Gold Cup which, because of the emotional attachment and historical significance, was one of the most stressful calls of my career.
Looking back to that first visit, it seems inconceivable how a snotty 10-year-old boy made a career out of his hobby (enjoying a great deal of right-place-right-time luck along the way) and eventually commentated at the Festival from the top of that expensive grandstand.
Whilst working for ‘The Life’, I was a regular and witnessed some great performances including the unforgettable Gold Cup victories of Dawn Run and Desert Orchid. When Dawn Run rallied up the hill under Jonjo O’Neill, I was standing on the press room balcony and several old hacks were hugging each other in front of me such was the joy of the moment.
After the nation’s favourite Desert Orchid had battled through the mud to beat Yahoo, spectators sprinted towards the winner’s enclosure.
When Channel 4 bagged the Festival rights from the BBC in the late 90s, there was real intent amongst the whole production team not to waste a marvellous opportunity to reflect the passions that drive racegoers to return every year. The epic live programmes were hugely innovative, always included many excellent features and were both entertainingly and articulately presented.
Casting any collective modesty aside, I believe an already great sporting occasion grew bigger, better, and more popular as a result.
Now, the Festival build-up seems to begin earlier every year. Winners of novice hurdles at Market Rasen in November are liable to receive quotes for the Ballymore, and I always think that the Cheltenham roar which sends the runners on their way in the Supreme Novices’ Hurdle on the first day of the meeting is both a celebration and exhalation of relief that the long wait is over.
What I really admire about the many regular members of the Cheltenham crowd is their self-evident, mature acknowledgement that without the risks involved, the intense Festival drama would be less compelling and the achievements involved in winning less commendable.
But never believe they don’t care. The general admiration for the horses is obvious, and a select few, like Dawn Run and Desert Orchid, will work their way into the hearts of racegoers as they have for this peripheral participant. Another Festival victory for the former Champion Hurdler Faugheen this year, for example, is likely to provoke an ecstatic reaction.
When the good ones win, I have seen hats thrown and grown men cry; when a horse falls and lies down, a pained and pensive hush ensues and, when they rise, the cheers could deafen dog-walkers on Cleeve Hill.
For me, it is this fundamental understanding of what is taking place, and all the emotions attached, which helps make the atmosphere at the Cheltenham Festival unlike any other race meeting.
And, 46 years on since that first visit, I can’t wait to be there.
