There has been horse racing at Catterick since 1783, and it is one of the busiest racecourses in North Yorkshire, with twenty-seven jump and flat meetings spread throughout the year. The first grandstand was built here in 1906, and the same basic structure remains, albeit with considerable modern improvements made within. The old wooden stand roof, with its many gables and painted edge decoration, reminiscent of that used on old railway stations, gives the place a cosy feel, and it is no surprise that this course is well renowned for its friendly atmosphere.

I rode at Catterick only twice in my riding career as I was mostly based in the south, but I have happy memories of snatching a last-gasp victory in the North Yorkshire Grand National Chase here on a bitterly cold Thursday in January. Thankfully, the weather on this particular day was considerably warmer and the earlier cloud and rain were giving way to brighter skies and even some watery sunshine.

I parked the car and decided to spend the £15 entry money rather than trying to rely on my old battered jockey’s badge, which I had simply kept when I’d retired. At almost fifty, who would I be kidding?

Frankie Dettori may still be racing in his fifties, and Lester Piggott famously rode his last winner in his sixtieth year, but those two, and the other older professional jockeys, tend to ride on the flat where crushing falls week in week out are less likely than for their jump-racing counterparts. A. P. McCoy, champion jump jockey on an unprecedented twenty consecutive occasions, was forty when he finally hung up his racing saddle, and he was considered to be a very senior statesman at the time.

I bought a racecard and studied the horses that would be racing later, taking particular notice of their trainers and declared jockeys. As I had expected, most of the trainers were based in the north, with quite a few from Middleham. Indeed, Simon Paulson, the trainer I had been to see on Sunday afternoon, had two runners, one in the first race and another in the fifth.

I don’t suppose he, for one, would be pleased to see me.

Tough.

I wandered over towards the weighing room on the end of the grandstand, close to the parade ring. Every trainer and jockey would have to come here at one time or another, the jockeys to change and weigh out for the races, and the trainers to collect their saddles, once weighed, to put on the horses.

The whole place has much changed since my riding days, with a new and larger parade ring, a reconfigured winner’s enclosure, and a totally refurbished weighing room with a wide glass frontage so racegoers could actually see the jockeys standing on the scales.

‘Nice,’ I said to the official at the door, indicating towards the new fancy glass.