As he sniffed the biting Cotswolds air, Vinny Fitzpatrick stamped his feet and let out a noise that could have been mistaken for a whinny which, in a way, it was.
It was the eve of the Cheltenham battle and Vinny was back on his favoured sporting turf of all, in the lee of Cleeve Hill.
Not that he could see the famous racecourse backdrop. As a blizzard swept across the course, Vinny couldn’t see much beyond the end of his fleshy nose.
“Jaypurs lads, you wouldn’t put a butcher’s dog out in that,” he said aloud.
Around him, there was silence. Vinny could sense the collective wonder of the lads at seeing the picture postcard scene, and the awe at being back in the heart of it all – just 24 hours before the off.
The raiding party was five-strong, consisting of Macker, Brennie, Fran and Charlie St John Vernon, all experienced Cheltenham racegoers.
There was a time, many Gold Cups ago, when the Dublin tourists were novices at the Cheltenham lark, and not even supreme ones at that. In their coltish youth they had come armed with a burning candle in their paws, had chased winners, skirt, and the big pot in the card games at the Queen’s.
Not now. In Festival terms, Vinny reckoned they were the equivalent of the runners in the National Hunt Chase, grand old stagers who plodded around at their own pace without getting into any danger.
As they sheltered by the main Grandstand, Brennie interrupted the kind of hush. "Lads, it's clearing up over Cleeve Hill. Let's walk the track."
Five figures
As Macker and Charlie Vernon were also up for it, the
indifference of Vinny and Fran didn’t matter.
The five figures set off just after 4.30 under a wan sun. The first half mile or so was uplifting. As they passed the Irish Yard and Best Mate Enclosures, Vinny felt the quintet carried echoes of Scott’s Polar party of 100 years ago.
If Charlie Vernon, with his posh clipped tones and organisation skills was Scott’s double, then the studious Macker was Dr Wilson and the horse-loving Fran was Lieutenant Oates. Brennie was a ringer for Birdy Bowers – short, wiry, enthusiastic – while Vinny filled the role of Edgar Evan s; genial and burly.
As Vinny reflected on Scott’s two major errors – the failure to bring Tom Crean and reducing the Polar party to four – a tungsten-like cloud enveloped Cleeve Hill. “There’s a storm a brewing,” chirped Brennie.
Soon, the flakes arrived, at pace too, stinging the exposed flesh like shards of glass. The visibility was quickly down to yards and Vinny, the quintet’s tail-ender , could barely see Fran in front of him.
Within minutes, the situation had worsened. Vinny called out Fran’s name in vain. The storm was a haymaker, all fury and spite. Vinny found himself blinded. He reached for the guard rail that flanked the course, and gripped on tight.
He assessed his bearings. The racecourse was to his left, fields and farmland to his right. Once he held on to the rail, he knew his position.
The difficulty was the cold. Even though Vinny had plenty of layers on, he had left his ski gloves in the hired car back at the racecourse entrance. It was a schoolboy error. His hands were two frozen hocks of ham.
Ill-fated crew
He thought of Scott's ill-fated crew and Evans, his doppelganger.
A damaged hand
began the demise of the bulky Welsh seaman on the return from the South Pole. Now, Vinny's hands were a problem. He wondered at the peril of the lads. Were they in a similar fix?
As the wind attacked him with a machine-gun rattle, Vinny gripped the guardrail and hung on tight. It crossed his mind that he might freeze to death. With graveyard humour, he thought of his R acing Post obituary: "Tailed off early on, never a factor, refused at fifth" and then came to his senses. He had to get out his predicament.
He shuffled a few feet forward, hugging the rail blindly, groping helplessly.
After a few moments, he lost his footing on the slippy terrain and fell. He was back on his feet in a count of eight but as he scrambled upright, he couldn’t find the rail.
He began to grope about sightlessly, pushing his arms in front of him, when he ran into someone. It was Fran. “Lean on me, Vinny,” shouted his old friend above the din. Soon another set of arms arrived. It was Brennie, who propped up Vinny from the other side
Between them, Macker and Fran steered their pal forward. After a few yards, they beckoned Vinny to hunch down. Then, all three shuffled forward on icy turf, dipping under some form of canvass. It was dark but there was no shrapnel sleet stinging any more though it was still cold.
Vinny made out a light, and the anxious faces of Charlie Vernon and Macker. Charlie's mobile phone cast a welcome glow, as did the hip flask offered to the portly busman. "Get this inside you man," barked Charlie.
Makeshift cave
Vinny sipped the contents of the flask and shuddered as the brandy kicked in. He glanced around the makeshift cave. "Lads, where the heck are we?" he said.
Charlie Vernon tapped the stiff brush behind him. “See this? It is the seventh fence Vinny, and we’re on the side of it shielded from the storm. We’re under the covers they put down on the track to keep out the frost, he said.”
Charlie explained how he grabbed the lads closest to him when the blizzard kicked off and made for the fence. The covers were no problem to his Swiss army knife.
When Charlie made the refuge secure, he sent Fran and Macker out to search for Vinny. “ We were fairly sure you would stay put, which you did. It was a close shave but we’re going to be okay.”
Vinny was taken aback at the resourcefulness of Charlie Vernon. Like Scott, he was a fine leader of men, who hadn’t panicked in a jam. Unlike Scott, he would make it to base camp with his party intact. As the warmth of his friends in the makeshift bivouac revived him, Vinny felt the experience had been a sign. He knew now which horse he would be backing in the Supreme Novices Hurdle. “Well lads, My Tent Or Yours?” he grinned.
