Roving Reports: Data Driven Drizzle geegeez.co.uk

It's a wet and cold Monday morning here in Nottingham, writes David Massey, and the news has just been announced that it's been the warmest January since they started measuring such things, which apparently was in 1919. As a slave to the data then of course - of course! - I believe the science when it tells me as such. It's just that the places I seem to have visited during that most miserable of months have managed to dodge any semblance of sunshine, as demonstrated by the fact I don't recall any tracks I attended having to miss out obstacles because of low sun.

I tell a lie - Doncaster on a Friday. Ah yes, I remember it well now. The warmth on the back of my neck as I wrote my notes about the brave and talented warriors about to contest the 0-100 handicap hurdle. A brief glimpse of potential spring, snatched away not two days later as I tried to make my way around a flooded Herefordshire.

Yes, I did one of my bi-annual excursions to the Welsh borders at the end of last month. After making a day trip to Cheltenham on the Saturday and remarking how much the water had receded around the Evesham area since my last visit, by the time Monday came back around it was starting to rise again, and quickly. I stayed in Worcester, by the cricket ground, on the Sunday night (although I didn't realise this until first light Monday morning, when the first thing I saw on opening the curtains was the Basil d'Oliveira Stand) and no sooner had I arrived there than the words "precautionary inspection" were uttered at Hereford, along with the phrase "cautiously optimistic". As I've said before, any clerk of the course using the word "optimistic" in an update should be fined five grand, and ten if they precede it with "cautiously". The BHA could, however, use that money to pay for trainer interviews, where famous Berkshire handler Willie Runnem-Ornot can tell us his horse has had a setback for the Cheltenham Festival, but he's "cautiously optimistic" he can get him back on track if Kempton will let the lad have a gallop round next Tuesday when there's no press about. That'll be two grand please. Cash in a brown envelope? Yes, that’ll do fine, thanks for coming along.

And so, early Monday, Hereford bites the dust, and I'm left in a hotel room in Worcester with little to do but look at an empty Graeme Hick stand and nowhere much to go. I'm tempted to hoik it up to Monmore Greyhounds for their afternoon meeting, but my next stop is Ross-on-Wye, in readiness for Chepstow on Tuesday, and I'd be heading the wrong way. I decide instead to do the sensible thing, and just do some pre-emptive Cheltenham writing whilst drinking more hotel coffee than is probably good for me.

The rain is still falling as I set off for Ross. A wise man would have gone back to the motorway at this point and stayed on the main roads but I'm a romantic idiot with time on my hands and decided to go the scenic route using the back roads. I'm glad I did, in some ways - stunning vistas as I drive in the shadow of the Malvern Hills and I also trundle past someone's training establishment - I still haven't worked out who it was - through one of the villages.

Then, about four or five miles out of Ross, there's trouble. I'm in a village where the only way through it is via a bridge, and that's flooded, badly. I stop and try to work out the situation. Gamble, drive through and potentially flood the engine, or (according to Google Maps) track back almost eight miles and add another half an hour to my journey time? I didn't need to wait long for an answer. A lorry goes past me and through the flood. It's deep, too deep. This is confirmed by a Range Rover who does the same, and barely gets through it. For once, common sense kicks in and I turn around. The Malverns look as lovely as they did twenty minutes ago from the reverse angle.

You know that feeling you get sometimes when you arrive somewhere and think "I've been here before, but I can't quite remember when?" - I get that as I pull up in Ross at my Premier Inn. I know I've been here, but I can't quite remember when, or why. Then it dawns on me. I came here once with a good friend a long, long time ago on the way back from our one and only trip to Ffos Las. We had dinner in the Beefeater next door and then a night of great sex in the hotel. Well, that's my recollection of things. She says we just had a poorly-cooked steak and the only pudding I got was sticky toffee before we hit the M50 half an hour later. I think she's probably right. I suspect I've let my imagination get the better of me. It was about ten years ago, after all. Anyway, I'm here again, and I ask the receptionist to book me into the (now) Travellers Rest next door for dinner.

"You'll have a job. The place closed months ago. It's derelict and being knocked down." That's the end of that, then. Serves them right for undercooking my steak.

There's a precautionary inspection at Chepstow tomorrow now. This journey could be a fairly expensive busted flush. However, some light emerges at the end of the tunnel, and for once it isn't an oncoming train.

To amuse myself whilst writing I've had an each-way Yankee at Plumpton and after a 25-1 winner (in a four-horse race too, all to win!) along with another winner and place it's looking pretty good. I'm offered a decent cash out. I never cash out. Never. But... the cash out would cover the price of the trip, and if Chepstow bit the dust tomorrow, it wouldn't matter too much. For the second time in a day, I do the sensible thing and cash out. Do I need to tell you what happened to the fourth selection? Of course I don't. It won half the track. The only consolation being I did have a few quid on as a single. Still, a bit gutting, although I remind myself the whole trip is now paid for if it all goes blank tomorrow. And as the rain falls down on a humdrum town, as The Smiths warbled back in 1984, it has to be said that looks a very likely scenario.

Tuesday morning. Miracle of miracles, Chepstow is somehow on. I'm actually going to get some racing.

I'm going with my friend Alex who I haven't seen in years. She awards herself the title of "Assistant Media Bitch" for the day, which not only suits her well, but could catch on elsewhere, I reckon. I know a few that would fit that title perfectly. Anyway, we have a cracking day, the highlight of which - for her - was making Richard Hoiles a cup of tea. "It won't get any better than that today", she excitedly shrieks. I manage to find a couple of losers before Royal Jewel digs me out, and then Lagertha is something of a paddock standout in the Mares Novice. It'll be a winning day, which is always nice. I don't have a penny on Jo Lescribaa but I'm delighted for my friend Andy who has a interest in her, and all in all it's been a really enjoyable trip despite the grim weather. Better still, it has rekindled Alex's love for a day at the races. She hasn't been for some time - "the game isn't the same as it was", she says, but I hope she will go racing, at least in midweek when it's a bit quieter, again in the near future. The drive home is a long one, but a call in at the ever-lovely Gloucester Services breaks it up.

Back to the present day. The app on my phone now tells me "Rain coming in under an hour." Any chance of a look at that weather data again, please? It's Leicester on Thursday and Haydock on Saturday for me this week. The Trackside bobble hat will be on, I can assure you. Say hello if you see me, or if it's as warm as the data says, Stop Me and Buy One. Either way, have a great week.

- DM