'There was a moment of rage - but he's a magnificent horse and it suits me that he's passed under the radar'

There's a building at Clive Cox's yard that I call 'the cathedral'. It's not a real cathedral, of course – you'd struggle to get planning permission for one of those in West Berkshire – more of a very big indoor school, yet the mood inside is much the same.

There are no flying buttresses or frescoes, no Renaissance master daubing cherubs on the lofty ceiling, but there's a certain reverential hush, a serenity about the place that springs directly from the quiet authority of the man in charge – a man we might call the Bishop of Beechdown Stables, but who would prefer, no doubt, to be known simply as a hard-working trainer who has done pretty well for himself, with or without divine assistance.

In the cathedral, as heaven-sent light streams through the roof, a string of energetic fillies do their best to disturb the ambience, but even they seem to pick up on the sense of calm, the undemonstrative tones of the trainer, further muffled by the soft, forgiving nature of the Polytrack underfoot. Some youngsters go through the stalls in here; others limber up peacefully for their routine canter; no rush.