'There was nothing like the same media pressure back then - but I think we'd fall apart if we stopped'

A morning spent at Seven Barrows is never anything less than a pleasure and an education. To be in among the horses, in the cold of the early hours, chatting to the ceaseless staff and the legendary trainer, standing in quiet awe of the top jockeys, it never gets old. Sadly, this is not one of those mornings.

We're closing in on Cheltenham and Nicky Henderson has gone beyond busy, past manic and is currently inhabiting a territory where Festival Fever has taken hold. Which means the chances of finding him in his office are between slim and none, and the likelihood of ten minutes face-to-face . . . well, Slim's outta town, as they say.

There are always horses to be trained, of course, it's just that when he's done training racehorses for the day at this time of the year, everybody wants a little piece of the man who carries Britain's greatest hopes for the big meeting on his accommodating, tweed-clad shoulders.