THE majestic view of Cleeve Hill bathed in sunshine. Guinness. The sight of Vautour clearing the last like Ed Moses in his pomp. The constant smell of pulled pork baps. More Guinness. The optimistic chatter and bar-room philosophy of punters. Some clued–up, others clueless. Another Guinness. This was the Cheltenham Festival, the greatest show on turf…

Cheltenham is the ultimate equine amphitheatre: the thrill of watching the best National Hunt horses stretching every sinew in the quest for victory is remarkable. I was privileged to be there for two days this week when the racing was scintillating and the craic was, well, craic-ing!

The journey down? I have never been on a happier train. It was 11am and I couldn’t move as we stood perilously near the buffet car, packed in like sardines. The guy squashing me against the glass double doors was built like a brick shithouse and had biceps the size of Arnie Schwarzenegger. But then Arnie pulled out a bag of supermarket lager and started offering them round to strangers. A chirpy Irish fellow (there were bloody hundreds of ‘em), already swaying from an early-morning libation, started telling us about the best pubs and clubs to visit in Cheltenham that night.

Cheltenham felt like the London Olympics, when, unusually for the capital, everyone was friendly. There was such a feel-good factor, from dusk until dawn. No trouble, no hassle, everyone’s happy even if they’ve lost money, or their shirt, or their dignity…

Leaving the course on Tuesday, one guy who was absolutely ratted, yelled: “It’s bloody brilliant here.”

He was right…

The racing was fantastic. The Rolls Royce performance of Vautour in the Supreme, Tom Scudamore pushing and shoving like a madman to lift Western Warhorse up on the line in the Arkle and the copybook jockeyship of the opportunistic Barry Geraghty driving Jezki to victory.

But these tantalising triumphs were almost trumped by terrible tragedies. The potentially brilliant Our Conor falling to his death and one of my favourite racehorses, Raya Star, left, meeting the same fate in the Grand Annual. Wretched, awful, unspeakable grief for the horses’ connections.

That tragedy rounded off a brutal Gold Cup day, which saw Ruby Walsh and Daryl Jacob depart with broken bones, adding to the horrific injury suffered by Bryan Cooper.

But the highs just about outweighed the lows. The feel-good victory of Sire De Grugy, which sparked football-style chanting in the stands; the brilliant Richard Johnson getting brave Balthazar King up to pip Any Currency and deny Martin Keighley a maiden Festival winner; and the exhilarating battle between RSA Chase victor O’Faolains Boy and the vanquished Smad Place. Smashing stuff.

There is no better sporting event. And within racing, the Cheltenham Festival knocks Royal Ascot, Aintree and Goodwood into a cocked hat. The sport. The people. The atmosphere. Wonderful.