For 23 years I lived in the North Cotswolds, heart of National Hunt racing country, where March comes round with a quickening of hearts. From Monday night of Gold Cup Week, helicopters bringing racegoers clattered over my chimney pots, en route to the hotel on the hill. Those were the days when the independent bookie, Simon, of Roughley Racing in Chipping Campden, wore a sports jacket and a flower in his button hole. Sadly, his friendly little betting shop was swept away by the rise of the internet and the demise of a lot of old boys who hung out every day for hours, watching the races on his TV and putting 50p on each way here and there. It was all great fun. The pubs and hotels put on Race Nights in the run-up. Everybody talked about horses and the B&Bs were full of the Irish.
Once, my car broke down in the middle of the High Street.
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