The Guinness Village is, to Cheltenham racegoers, something of a field of dreams. It sits on the side of the track, at the foot of Prestbury Park’s infamous hill, the topography urging punters toward its concrete embrace, like snooker balls destined for a wonky table’s corner pocket.
As a folk band plays, winners and losers are as one, those waving the white hanky of another losing slip wearing the same smiles as those charged to victory by the magic of that dark liquid luck. It was here — perhaps seeking a bit of the latter — that Nico De Boinville found himself on the Friday afternoon of last year’s Festival.
