It has not been a vintage year for sport in Cheltenham. The town’s football club is on such a poor run it is in danger of losing its League status and the county cricket festival on the college ground, though an aesthetic delight as ever, did little to revive the fortunes of Gloucestershire.
Thank goodness, then, that the greatest of the town’s calendar of diverse festivals can be depended upon for quality, excitement and a full week of social excess that can make much of the annual profit for local businesses. Nightly, it can be heard clearly from my bedroom window.
There are periodic mutterings in the racing industry that Cheltenham has grown too big, too dominant, but few will venture such a view this week. The Festival is a drug, not just to those who work single-mindedly with the participant horses but to many whose first diary entries each year are the sacred four days in March.
It is even better if you happen to live here — and not just because sleeping at home avoids the quadrupled prices of local hotels operating on the same supply-and-demand principles that govern air and rail fares. No, being a resident of Cheltenham offers a private window on the developing momentum of a unique event.
Monday is a personal favourite. Annually, this is the day when all things remain possible. It is also the day when many Cheltenham lifers will arrive in town, brighter of eye and lighter of step than they are likely to contrive at any later stage of the week. The anticipation in the faces, and the snatches of overheard conversation, tell of barely suppressed excitement.
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Another thing about Festival Monday is that it is the last day when the non-racing residents of Cheltenham (remarkably, there are a few) will chance a trip to the town centre. Thereafter, a self-imposed exclusion order exists. It is largely unnecessary but it is an established ritual, handing over the place to the incomers and leaving the shops, hairdressers and cafés virtually deserted from noon each day.
Mornings are different. Festival mornings see the race-going throng choose their spot for breakfast in a town which offers almost limitless choice. In elegant Montpellier alone, there are half-a-dozen options, notably Gusto and Café del Art. There are more across the A40, in the area known as the Suffolks, including the estimable Suffolk Kitchen – also a favourite for dinner.
Downtown, in the pedestrianized end of Regent Street, a new branch of Bill’s has opened recently, breakfast a speciality. It stands in a buzzy area that also houses a branch of Jamie Oliver’s Italian restaurants and several cafés both in and beside the town’s fine theatre.
Those nursing a hangover may benefit from a walk to the racecourse. If so, stopping off in Pittville Park is a good option. The glorious Pump Room building is Grade One listed. Around it are lawns so peaceful you would scarcely know that 70,000 people are descending on an arena barely 200 yards away. There is also a café for light refreshment.
Naturally, you can eat and drink to your heart’s content inside Prestbury Park and, this year, for an extra £10 a head, you can be one of the 1,200 people each day allowed into the Final Flight marquee, which offers a bar and live music long after racing has ended.
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The evening is still young, though, and there will be a general move back to the buzzy end of town. For those in search of something quieter, bypass Montpellier and discover Tivoli, which has a civilised pub, the Tivoli Inn, as well as a fine café and a wine shop.
However, the crowds will congregate around the Montpellier Wine Bar and the newly renovated Harry Cook, which has restored many of the traditional features evident when it was a favourite watering hole for cricketers in the days when Mike Procter captained Gloucestershire. Temporarily, it has a wooden rocking horse in the window, just in case anyone forgets which week it is.