In spite of most of the trainers with runners here being based in the north, a few had made the long trek up from more southerly points. One of those was Clive Beale, who trained in North Oxfordshire, just a few miles from my house in Nutwell. According to the racecard, he had a runner in the third race called Devil’s Own. Even though Clive and I were not close pals ourselves, we had several mutual friends and often saw each other at local Christmas parties and the like. I’d even been to his yard once, when a racing magazine had done a feature on past champion jockeys, and they had wanted some photos of me with horses.

I found him in the hospitality area reserved for the owners and trainers.

Everyone in racing knows that the future of the sport relies on people being prepared to spend their money buying horses, and then also paying for the training of them. Hence the racecourses have realised that their very existence is dependent on looking after the horse owners with complimentary car parking and entry tickets, plus free lunches. The trainers are also feted in the same lordly manner, as it is usually they who choose at which racecourses the horses in their care will run and, who knows, a good lunch and a free glass of wine might make all the difference.

At Catterick the owners and trainers’ hospitality areas are in the new Dales Stand, a magnificent two-storey facility built right next to the track and close to the parade ring. The stand also houses the special Winner’s Room, where the winning connections are invited to join the racecourse chairman for a celebratory glass of champagne and a chance to watch a rerun of their victory on television.

Clive was finishing his free lunch in the Wensleydale Room and I blagged my way in to see him, telling the doorman I was his assistant and needed to talk to him about the welfare of our horse.

‘Hi, Clive,’ I said, sitting down facing him at the same table. ‘You’re a long way from home.’

‘So are you, Sid,’ he replied.

He popped the last morsel of steak and kidney pie into his mouth.

‘Devil’s Own must have a good chance in the third,’ I said. ‘Otherwise why would you bring him all the way up here?’

‘I think he has a very good chance,’ he said with a twinkle in his eye. ‘But it was actually the owner who insisted I run the horse here rather than at Fontwell. His son is based down the road at Catterick Garrison and he’s brought a couple of his army buddies to watch the Devil run. They’re downstairs in the owners’ bar. Trying to drink it dry, I reckon.’

I laughed. ‘Is the owner here too?’