April meant Aintree for Grand National day itself, an event that needs no introduction and delivers every single time. We watched from the roof terrace of the Lord Daresbury Suite, which I can heartily recommend: a panoramic view over the course, and the full wall of noise as the field sets off rising up to meet you.
There is nothing in sport quite like it. The collective intake of breath at the big fences, the roar building through the final circuit, and the world’s most famous steeplechase deciding fortunes in under ten minutes.
The day is about far more than the race itself: the crowds, the fashion, the gallows humour of torn-up betting slips, and the sense of an event that belongs to everyone. I came home hoarse and marginally poorer, which I believe is the traditional result.
Or rather, I eventually came home. The Irish Sea had other ideas, and the weather saw our ferry back cancelled, leaving us stranded in Liverpool for an extra day. As strandings go, it was a hardship we bore with remarkable fortitude. We made the most of it properly, revisiting some favourite spots around the Albert Dock, fitting in some shopping, and rounding the day off with a curry, before catching an evening flight home the following day. Any trip to the races that ends with an accidental city break has, on balance, overdelivered.
Charlton Krentz 