One glorious last hurrah before the lamps go out on sport

A belter of a Gold Cup but shot through with an element of elegy. When the tapes rose one of those great festival roars crashed out towards Cleeve Hill, but you knew that this was our last hurrah.

A trick of fancy perhaps, but that noise seemed louder than usual as if the crowd were having a final blast before the wider world closes in on us. Our gathering of 250,000 over four days has had about it an element of escaping the tightening noose.

Racing will inevitably soon retreat behind closed doors. Across the world sporting events are being rammed on the spike as fear of crowds spreading contagion catches hold, and soon racecourses will become haunted ballrooms as the sound of hooves plays out to the absence of cheers. We are going down a dark road with no known destination.