Mindy Hammond

With a double celebration of St Patrick’s Day and Cheltenham Festival on the cards, our columnist is all ready for the craic

St Patrick’s Day and Cheltenham Festival set our columnist’s heart racing

It’s St Patrick’s Day and although I may be only part Irish (thank you, Mum), it’s one of the annual events I never fail to celebrate, mostly because the Cheltenham Festival always falls around now. A person needn’t be a fan of horse racing to be aware of the festival, and having spent most of my life in the Cheltenham area, I have hilarious memories of Irish visitors celebrating their successes in local bars well into the wee small hours. Or sometimes simply overindulging, like the poor man myself and a few friends spotted staggering down the slow lane of the bypass, slurring an unrecognisable tune as he drifted dangerously towards the central reservation. We eventually managed to coax him into the car after explaining he really couldn’t walk back to Ireland – and was headed in entirely the wrong direction anyway.

He was quite possibly the funniest, jolliest drunk I’ve ever met – despite having lost all his money, his jacket and one of his shoes – and was extremely grateful to be delivered back to his hotel.

We knew he would be back on his feet by morning, cajoled by his friends to join them in the pub for a traditional breakfast and a good pint of the black stuff over a copy of the Racing Post, before gathering in readiness for the daily mile-long procession from the town centre to the racecourse.

It’s quite a sight to behold – a sea of green, brown and tweedclothed men marching along the streets, accompanied by an occasional flash of colour from their wives and girlfriends, often tottering desperately to keep up on high heels which match their outfits perfectly but were never designed for longdistance walking.

Inevitably, this is the week Cheltenham turns tweed. Traffic jams for miles in every direction play host to cars filled with racegoers decked out in every hue imaginable, while caps

and trilbies await their outing on parcel shelves, and elaborate ladies’ hats quiver with anticipation in hatboxes safely stowed in the boot.

Safety is, as we know, very important for headgear. I saved my hat creation after the feathers had been eaten by Sparrow a few weeks ago. And I managed to seize victory from the labrador jaws of defeat by using some of Dink the peacock’s less-colourful feathers to redecorate my green felt hat ready for this week. And because I had some glue left over – and had found a very bald red topper – I was inspired to turn that into a thing of feathery beauty, too.

Although, if the dreaded racecourse wind has anything to do with it, they are probably both a bit bare by now (and please excuse me if I can’t confirm how they fared as I wrote this column in advance). The racecourse itself is often a crush well before the first race and the atmosphere is incredible. No matter what the weather, if the festival is on, the people will come. Unlike many other racing meets, this particular event doesn’t simply attract occasional racegoers or people looking for an excuse to dress up on a day out. Cheltenham is a sort of hallowed ground for the passionate to celebrate racing perfection.

The crème de la crème of horses, jockeys and trainers converge to compete at one of the most important events in the racing calendar, and their feats of courage never fail to impress. Those who take part are athletes, and sadly even a professional athlete can occasionally make a mistake. Sometimes there are mishaps and everyone holds their breath for news when a horse falls. After all, the best races are those where everyone comes home safe and sound. Last year, when there was a faller at the final fence, the whole crowd stilled. The winner crossed the line to little more than a ripple of praise as screens were quickly brought on to the track and we waited with bated breath. Many, like me, with tears stinging their eyes. It seemed to take an age, yet it was just a few minutes before the screen moved and the horse walked soundly out. The cheer that erupted from the course was overwhelming and applause for that horse followed him all the way back to the stables. He may not have won the race, but he won everyone’s admiration.

The Irish contingent may have returned to their homeland to mark the anniversary of their patron saint’s death but I’m sure their celebrations in advance haven’t been dampened.

I hope they have set sail with pockets bulging – or at the very least fond memories of a wonderful few days – with hats intact on heads not too sore, and with a full complement of shoes.