THE lady, bedecked in tweed, would not shut up. The horses were walking in for the RSA Chase and Mrs Tweed was rattling on regardless: “What’s happening now? How many times do they run round? Do they jump the fences? Have they started yet?” Some folk were chuckling. Others were quietly seething. As the race unravelled, Mrs Tweed was still wittering on. Her male partner was answering her inquiries with dwindling enthusiasm. She was eventually drowned out by the roars of appreciation for the peerless Don Poli who produced one of the most striking performances of the week. Then she struck up again in her haughty tones: “Has it finished? Who won?”

This was the Cheltenham Festival. I managed three days. They were largely magnificent and not even the odd tweed-covered lady could spoil it. In fact, in a perverse way, these random asides made the occasion all the more entertaining. There were the two inebriated lads stood near me during the Champion Chase who were yelling: “Come on Barry” before one asked the other: “What’s Barry’s second name?” Priceless…

The equine highlights? Too many to mention. But Vautour’s was a Rolls-Royce performance; the terrier-like Un De Sceaux was a joy to watch and Coneygree was as brave as a lion.

But AP McCoy’s genius-like ride on Uxizandre in the Ryanair Chase was my personal highlight, not only as it was his final Cheltenham Festival winner, but also because I backed it! The almost stony silence as this 16/1 outsider bounded up the hill to victory contrasted with the marvellous applause afforded to this amazing man and jockey as he trotted back past the stands. The lump in the throat grew bigger as a spontaneous “three cheers” rung out in the parade ring.

Faugheen’s Champion Hurdle success was delivered with precision by the dominant Willie Mullins and Ruby Walsh. Mission accomplished. One random aside I loved was the way Mullins doffed his hat to Clare Balding and any other lady he encountered. Who said chivalry was dead?

And then there are those we may not see grace Prestbury Park again including the legendary pair, Sprinter Sacre and Hurricane Fly. Imagine a Festival without The Fly? And, of course, the irreplaceable McCoy.

Next year promises so much… Don Poli, Djakadam and Vautour all going for the Gold Cup; the giant Douvan trying to emulate Vautour in novice chases and Dodging Bullets still trying to force his way into the hearts of racing fans.

There will be no more Mr McCoy in 2016 but there will be that constant whiff of pulled pork, vats of Guinness, and man and beast stretching every sinew up that famous hill. Plus, I’m sure Mrs Tweed will be there too asking lots of questions. Cheltenham wouldn’t quite be the same without her.