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Racing Post Monday, February 27, 2012 7

A LL my earliest Cheltenhammemories are small-framedand black and white to anO’Sullevan soundtrack. Ismemory playing one of its

inexhaustible repertoire of tricks whenI recall Sir Peter’s tones having anextra measure of seriousness andsolemnity as they wheeled at the startof major festival races, a deceptive airof calm before the storm of greatdeeds?

In middle age you look back insearch of what have been life’sconstant refrains – faithful friends, thepower of words, an early start withtobacco that argues an early end, apropensity to punt, the pop of corks,fascination with wars, the growing ofchildren and, running though it all, aprofound preoccupation with aparticular place at a very specifictime. Cheltenham in March.

And what I remember clearest of allfrom those stolen afternoons watchingCheltenham on the box was a fiercedesire, an ache, to be there and bepart of something that the child in mecould not as yet define but which Iknew to be overpowering. The shiresand the Cotswolds were light yearsfrom the suburbs of youth but theirlure was already irresistible.

I was 19 when I first went to thefestival and have missed not a daysince. The three days that becamefour have tapped out a rhythmthrough my life and when theclimactic crash of the drums is stilledafter the last race on Gold Cup daythey are replaced by the steady clickof the metronome marking the start ofthe countdown to the following year.

Part of Cheltenham’s magic lies inits flirtation with the savage. Atfestival pace no other course asksquestions of horse and rider in such asearching way – the rise and fall ofthe terrain, the fences and that longclimb to the gods at the end stripeverything to the bone. Nowhere elsebrings courage more to the fore.

And to go there and stand witnessto extraordinary events is a rare andwonderful act of being at one withyour fellow clutterers of the planet.The elements of pilgrimage areincredibly strong as time, effort,expense and often a wearying journeyare involved, and if the target of theworshippers is not exactly holy, thecentre of the festival universe – thewinner’s enclosure – has about it astrong sense of something sacred notleast for the sacrifices that have to bemade in order for horse and humansto stand there.

Of course the punter can take the

most savage pummelling, yet joy stillsomehow wins through. There areplaces of magic and emotion in othersports – Seve or Nicklaus walking intriumph down the 18th at St Andrews– but nothing holds a candle to thedance of triumph down the horsewalkin front of the exultant and admiringstands baying the praise of the victorsand giving visceral thanks for whatthey have just been privileged to see.

Everybody can recall their ownmoments when the spine surrendersto the shiver, the throat struggles andeyes fight a losing battle with the blurof tears. Different horses stir differentemotions – the presence of the

indisputably unparalleled in Arkle, thejoy of justice being done in the mireto Desert Orchid, the fierceness ofstruggle when Monksfield, NightNurse and Sea Pigeon battled for themastery, the banshee blast that willedDawn Run back in front as the yardsdwindled and the post loomed.

And never underestimate the ritualof the meeting as the clan gathers. Inevery corner of these islands, frominner-city apartment, small-town semiand rural outpost, groups of friendsgather and make their way toCheltenham year on year each a tinytributary feeding the 60,000-strongriver of humanity that will inundate

the course on opening day.The Chippings, Slaughters and

Swells of the Wolds fill with folk hell-bent on enjoying themselves. Forfour days all the normal rules aresuspended, money seems to have nomore value than the notes you get ina Monopoly box and hope springs hotthat this is the week when it is yourturn to eviscerate the old enemy.

P UBS, hotels and B&Bs arerammed with the samereturning guests, and highgood humour is the order ofthe day such as the

ruddy-faced Cork man in charge of a large group of hard-chargingIrishmen who came down to breakfastand greeted his bleary troops with theimmortal: “Mornin’ lads – another dayof drinking and guessing!”

And as you get older you have thethrill of seeing the young fall in thrallto the meeting. When my kids weresmall they loved Cheltenham becausethe house would fill up with theirparents’ friends who were the most

fun, entertaining or plain unhinged,with not a bed, sofa or floor spaceunoccupied. Now they themselves areaddicts of the exuberance of the fourdays and have decades ahead of themthrough which they can weave theirown personal folklore of festivalhistory.

And when the time comes I suspectmy ashes will find their final restingplace at the top of the hill – a place ofsolitude and skylarks in summer butwhere the denouement begins to boilto brutal in winter. At the top of thehill all the dreams are still alive, thetriumphs and tragedies of the longswoop down and hard haul up the hillto victory yet to unfold before the raptranks in the stands.

On a quiet day, a few souls whoshare my blood, and some of thosefriends who truly understood whythat blood was ever quickened in thatplace in the month when the hares gomad, will perform a simple ceremony.And that will be me done and literallydusted – forever lodged somewhere Ibelieve I belong.

WHY I LOVECHELTENHAMAlastair Down on the impact the festivalhas had on his life – and probably beyond

‘To go there and stand witness to extraordinaryevents is a rare and wonderful act of beingat one with your fellow clutterers of the planet’

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