There was no sight of a tic-tac man on Temple Meads station. No sight, in fact, of anyone resembling the punters' TV racing icon John McCririck, either, as I boarded the train to head for Cheltenham Spa.

Given the plan for my day out, I thought it rather apt the mode of transport was called Cross-Country Trains, for I should be spending the following hours watching significant amounts of expensive horseflesh doing their own rural rides across the vast stretch of green that is Prestbury Park race course.

Yes, it was Cheltenham Festival week and I was paying my annual pilgrimage.

This year, I was something of a free spirit, as Mrs D decided to stay home for once, breaking something of a tradition. Her reasoning was that as her Best Mate (yes, that is a deliberate and pathetic horse joke for those who can be bothered) had high-tailed it to Oz for her daughter's wedding, if she accompanied me as a happily married couple to Cheltenham races I would, she claimed, "just wander off like you always do and I would be on my own in a vast crowd".

So I bought a single ticket and hopped on the train.

And jolly good it was, too. It left on time, arrived on time and, showing a touch of joined-up thinking so often lacking here in our own fair city, the Cheltenham bus operators had the ticket inspector on the train selling shuttle bus tickets on its behalf.

All this meant that when you exited the station you strode a few yards and straight on to a double-decker bound for the ground. It was a fantastic service, which worked just as well at the end of the day.

Anyway, clutching a Guinness in one hand and a race card in the other, I sought out a flat surface (they are in exceptionally short supply) where I could ring round my chosen horses upon which I would ladle all the savings I've made since Gordon Brown cut VAT.

The last sentiment is, blatantly, a lie but I reason that, if you are getting virtually nil return at the bank, you might invest a few quid on something that could, potentially hook you a return of 10, 20, 33 or 66 times more than you have handed over.

And it's all tax free.

Now, normally, I'm not too bad at little wagers like this ... but Wednesday, for that was my chosen day, the fates were not smiling kindly upon me.

I felt sure I had picked at least some horses from the seven races which would net me some benefits cash-wise.

Think again.

Nothing went to form. The luck of the Irish (trainers, that is) was ruling the entire day, it seemed. Yet no one, not even other Cheltenham acquaintances, all of whom know much, much more than me about the gee-gees, could fathom which particular Irish mount was going to do the business.

So the races came and went, and so did my wagers.

Come the end, I was resorting to all those silly old desperate routines like betting on a horse because it was the same name as your Dad.

In my case, this is more than confusing because my father, a Dubliner, was always happily known as Paddy in my village and there are far too many Irish horses which carry the same appendage.

I popped some cash on one for that very reason and then read it had been specifically trained up for this one race and was being ridden by its owner. I trust he was as disappointed as I was at its efforts!

And so it went on. It wasn't a case of win some, lose some. It was just the latter.

Anyway, my more serious racing friends at Cheltenham reckoned we could get back lots of dosh we'd wagered by backing an absolutely unstoppable prospect in the very last race of the day. The same rumour had obviously whizzed around the course to all and sundry. Horse-whispering, I believe they call it.

So I took the plunge, opted for a straight win, and laid my money down.

It is still running somewhere.

It's name was Rite of Passage.

How apt, I thought, as I rather dejectedly flipped through my much-thumbed race card as I headed back to Temple Meads.