THIS time last year, a local hero, Alfie, was on his way to amateur jump-racing’s Holy Grail, the Cheltenham Foxhunters’, a race shown on national television and which illuminates country sports and Corinthian spirit. Cue feverish anticipation and sausage roll-baking. Could the last person out of the village please turn the lights off.
Full of picnic, in we pile to the pre-parade ring, where only the horses are relaxed, then the theatre of dreams that is the Cheltenham paddock (page
78) and, finally, like wittering sardines, into the owners and trainers’ stand—the racecourse looks after all owners, whether of an Irish airline and the Gold Cup favourite or a few tail hairs apiece, with equal courtesy.
At 66–1, dear, rewarding Alfie is a front-runner, hogging the television cameras and leaping…
