‘Training him is appallingly worrying - we're living on a knife edge’

We know what little girls and little boys are made of. What's Coneygree made of? Glass, cocktail sticks, wafer biscuits, bone china.

The big, deceptively sturdy-looking gelding stands at the back of his box, gamely enduring a good brushing – "He had sweet itch as a baby and has sensitive skin, although he's a bit of a drama queen, a mummy's boy," says his mummy Sara Bradstock – and as we look at him he gazes back at us, his big brown eyes full of impenetrable mysteries, one of which is 'why do I keep being injured?'.

It's not a mystery, it's a curse, one that makes Mark Bradstock mutter darkly about it being ridiculous that his ten-year-old Cheltenham Gold Cup winner has run only 12 times, only twice in the last two years, a regular disappearing act that almost qualifies him for the 'where are they now?' file. We know where Coneygree is; he's in the wars.