IF you are not already booked for your trip to Cheltenham then perhaps you have left it too late and may be better off avoiding last-minute panic and disaster. Although, as the saying about “best-laid plans” warns, those who have been safely booked up since last March shouldn’t be sitting back so smugly.

Rachel and her mother Diane Mescall provide a sobering insight into how methodical, advanced planning can still go awry. Such as your hire car conking out on the fast lane of the motorway en route between Birmingham Airport and Prestbury Park. And that was only after making the flight out of Dublin by the skin of their teeth.

It’s Cheltenham week, folks, allow for added queues at security at 5.30am. “I tried to remain calm but the mother was in my ear constantly,” recalls Rachel at the memory.

Luckily it was Cheltenham week, so the fast lane wasn’t living up to its name. Replacement hire car? “It’s Cheltenham week, you know.” Hence our luckless ladies finally arrived at the races in a tow truck, although even that had required a little creative inventiveness on their part.

Being the owners of the favourite in the first helped a great deal, until their kindly truck driver deposited them at the owners’ entrance and their white lie threatened to turn them a rosy red. “The mother is off again. My ears!”

Never underestimate the charm of Irish ladies and at last they’re in. “The mother is ecstatic, her very first Cheltenham at the age of 70 and she is loving it and relishing all the sights, the atmosphere, the ambience of the track,” Rachel assures us. “Between us we back a few winners and meet some great people.”

But after racing? Where is the promised replacement hire car? Or the tow truck with their luggage? “Don’t you know it’s Cheltenham week?” the hire company reminds them by way of excuse. Seven o’clock comes and goes and our ladies are still in the car park. “The mother, who is normally so elegant and refined, is like Mad Moose on a bad day.”

They are eventually rescued by their knight in shining tow truck, but on the way to the hotel? “A mile or so up the road and BANG, another vehicle crashes into us. The mother has her head down, face buried in her hands. Shaking uncontrollably. She’s in hysterics, laughing!” Thankfully no one in either vehicle was injured and at half-past midnight they finally checked into their hotel.

Rachael Uí Bhaoill was another who got more than she bargained for at her first Cheltenham Festival, quite literally. “I had committed to spending £10 per race so that I was guaranteed to stay within my budget for the three days I was there,” she tells us of her careful planning.

“Just before the roar went up on Tuesday I anxiously queued for the bookies, having studied the form all morning. The man in front of me said: ‘£5,000 to win on three’.

“Dumbfounded, I quickly reconsidered my choice and decided whatever he was having I was having too and promptly put my week’s betting money, £240, on the horse I hadn’t even picked that morning.”

The heat of Cheltenham can get to anyone, but this story has a very happy ending. The complete stranger had unknowingly tipped Rachael a 10/1 winner.

Picking winners, or following tips, we all hope to celebrate a big win, but perhaps just hanging onto the winnings at all is more of a battle than we’d expect. Tom Galway had a particularly lucky day at Prestbury Park, after a lifetime’s ambition to have his shot at those turf accountants at the foot of Cleeve Hill.

“On my maiden visit I took great pleasure in collecting and quickly zipping up my pocket after just the third race on the card and retiring to the bar for the day. I thought I had this hill thing conquered.

“Fast forward to 2009 and I was so tight-fisted that I wouldn’t waste a penny of my ‘tank’ in anticipation of an almighty plunge on Dunguib. I travelled to the track with my wheelie-type luggage bag squealing along behind me in bad need of some WD40.”

With Dunguib duly coming home, the weighed-down wheels were less squeaky on the return journey. “Celebration time, me boys, so off to the taxi rank with my band of brothers and we pile into two silver cars, ours with an Asian driver who places my bag in the boot for safety,” recalls Tom. “We head for Pirandello’s Italian, the place is buzzing and so are we. Choose something nice from the menu to go with the wine… Mmmm let’s see… OH MY HOLY JESUS, THE BAG IS STILL IN THE BOOT OF THE TAXI!”

Instead of the usual celebrations, Tom spent three hours checking taxi ranks and offering an ever-increasing bounty to find his taxi man. “Little did the poor man know that Securicor don’t carry as much cash as he had over the back axel of his Nissan Primera. Finally by 10pm I am accepting defeat and am as sober as a judge. One last prayer to St Anthony, I will be so good and go to Mass every Sunday and give up f***ing swearing.”

There’s a lot to be said for the power of prayer. Within 15 minutes Tom was reunited with his wheelie bag, which he slept with for the next three nights!

Rory Dowd remembers an equally lucky escape when he had the job of placing bets for a professional gambling syndicate. He warned them he’d be away at Cheltenham on the Thursday, but neglected to factor in a particularly successful afternoon, resulting in the champagne flowing into the night at The 21 Club.

“I awoke on the Saturday, back in Dublin, with a stinging hangover and not much recollection of the Friday,” he admits.

His phone messages included “€1,000 on Long Run at 6/1” however. He had only his text reply “Bet on” as evidence he had even placed the bet during that Lost Day. “Sweating to death, the panic that set in when I couldn’t find the docket will never leave me! I went down to the betting shop and had to wait 30 minutes for them to open.

“I got sick all over the door as I was walking in, convinced I was about to have to somehow explain I owed €7,000 to a group of professional punters!” Much to his relief he had placed the bet but hadn’t taken the docket and was paid out.

Spending a week at Cheltenham isn’t all about the racing, though. There are plenty of other sporting interests to amuse the crowds.

Chris Speake recalls a game of Imaginary Cricket, complete with imagined bat and imagined ball, which took place after the races in the United Services Club.

“A well-fuelled young man marked out his run-up, which snaked around eight tables and past a large doorman. The batsman positioned at the opposite end of the room waited nervously as the rest of the lads and locals took up fielding positions around the club. There was a slight delay whilst a portly Aussie gentleman gently persuaded, in what can only be described as outback language, the doorman to move, as he was standing directly behind the bowler’s arm.”

The bowler came steaming in and delivered an imaginary ball, which the batsman defended with his imaginary bat, but the umpire called a no-ball. “Much to the distaste of the bowler,” Speake recalls, “who re-marked his run-up, which took him through the exit and 20 yards down the street.

“So in he came again, sprinting this time, past confused-looking onlookers and the doorman, around the tables, past the umpire, and delivered his second ball, which the batsman prodded at to get an imaginary inside edge, which was then caught at short leg by the Aussie diving forward on to the floor.”

The celebrations that followed included the bowler, most of the fielders and even the elderly landlord, piling on top of the Aussie, the landlord losing a tooth in the process but generously getting all the players a round of drinks.

The path to Cheltenham may not always be smooth and you may not always win, but memories are the best investment you can make. J