Meteorologists argue for the first day of March as the dawning of spring. The astronomical calendar favours the 20th, taking account of the earth’s degree of tilt as we orbit the sun. For the sporting fraternity spring begins on the first day of the Cheltenham Festival, which this year falls on the glorious 12th.
There is in the air an unmistakable buoyancy, a sense of good things happening, of leaving winter behind and driving towards the sun. And that feeling extends way beyond the tyranny of the betting slip. To snake your way towards the regency Gloucestershire spa town from any point in the surrounding Cotswolds is to imbibe England’s essence. And you will be snaking no matter what hour of the morning you are called to this emblematic equine pageant.
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The west bound journey from Chipping Norton through Stow-on-the-Wold is the kind of routing that convinces our American brothers and sisters that England is in fact a series of stone-clad villages set in softly breathing bucolic valleys cut through with pretty rivers and streams. Moreover a landscape populated by fop-haired men who look like Hugh Grant and women who wear Dubarry boots and pearls. Actually, the last bit might be true.
Destination event
With each passing year Cheltenham assumes greater import, not only in National Hunt terms but as a feature of the British sporting calendar. Marketeers refer to it is a “destination event”, which decoded means a gig with the GDP of a small country, flush with heavy duty corporate schmoozing and enough tweed to cover Cleeve Hill twice over.
More than a quarter of a million people will cross the threshold over the next four days, a human tide worth an estimated £100,000,000 to the local economy, a chunk of that spent on five tons of smoked salmon and 45,000 afternoon teas consumed over four days, not to mention the nine tonnes of spuds scoffed by the hoi polloi on the concourses. There are no figures given for the amount of high and low end booze drained, but you can bet your last nickel it dwarfs the tea and coffee orders, which amounts to 8,000 gallons on its own.
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All this is a mighty leap from the imperilled 1960s when members of the jockey club, led by Johnny Henderson, the father of the festival’s most successful trainer Nicky, whipped up almost a quarter of a million quid to keep the Cheltenham complex out of the mercantile mitts of property developers. Since then the Jockey Club has spent more than 120 million smackers on developing the site, including the £45m, five-storey palazzo that is the Princess Royal Grandstand unveiled four years ago.
For four days at least the earthy meld of folk posh and common suspend class distinctions and tolerate each other. Squadrons of rowdy lads in their best bib and tucker carouse about the place managing to stay just the right side of sensible in pursuit of willing fillies and elusive winners. The mad throng is held together by an unquenchable enthusiasm for the craic.
Irish rule
The colonisation of this pristine corner of England by the Irish is fuelled by the importance bestowed upon it by Ireland’s horse community. The emergence of wealthy patronage across the Irish sea has transformed the prospect of her trainers. Gordon Elliott, tipped for a third consecutive festival leading trainer crown, arrives with a stable of more than 50 runners. Willie Mullins, who led the Cheltenham table in five of the previous six years, has cut down to 40, twice the number expected to make the trip from Somerset with Paul Nicholls, who in turn claimed five in six trainer titles from 2004.
Though the force is with the Irish in this phase of the festival’s evolution, Nicholls comes with renewed figure this year with an emerging string led by red hot chasers Clan Des Obeaux (Gold Cup) and Frodon (Ryanair Chase). Henderson saddles the festival’s alpha beast Altior, who aims for back-to-back victories in the Queen Mother Champion Chase, and Buveur d’Air, who goes for the hat-trick in the Champion Hurdle on the opening day.
This year also sees the return of the original Gold Cup trophy first presented in 1924 and not seen since the early 1970s. Mystery surrounds its disappearance before it popped up in private hands. The unnamed owner, who kept it in a bank vault for the past four decades, saw fit to restore the 644 gram, nine carat pot to its natural habitat. What a time to be alive.
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