On my way back north first thing tomorrow. It’s been a week of peaks and troughs, joys and sorrows. The right horse, in the end, won the Gold Cup. There were no hard luck stories or unlikely occurrences. The most talented, the most brave, the most dogged ran up that hard hill, and made throats sore with cheering. He deserved all of the cheers. Bobs Worth is a small-ish, ordinary-looking horse. He does not have the preen and flash of Kauto Star or Sprinter Sacre. But he has a heart as big as a house, and he does not know how to give in.
I love Silviniaco Conti too, who fell, but will be back to fight another day. But I was really glad, in the end, that the little Bobs Worth did it, in such dauntless fashion.
Full report over the next few days. In the meantime, I am heart-sore to be leaving the cousins, but there will be a moment, half-way up the motorway, when I suddenly realise that I shall soon see this person again, and the very notion shall lend me wings:
Interestingly, although I could not love Mr Stanley the Dog or Myfanwy the Pony more, this is the one I miss so much it sometimes makes me catch my breath. It’s not that I love her the most; but I do miss her the most.