I've never been to Swindon - and despite staying in a leading hotel chain's Swindon Central dwelling - I still haven't.

That's unless you can count a roundabout on a bypass as central Swindon.

It's a shame as I'd done by research.

Did you know for example Swindon's name in the Domesday book is Suindune. An anglo-saxon translation comes out as pig hill.

I was hoping that referred to my breakfast plate for the following morning but as I now refuse to eat anywhere that isn't a serve-yourself buffet, I had to pass.

Instead I fired up the Old Golf to head the six miles to Alan King's yard.

At that moment the sat nav fell from the windscreen, struck my passenger's knee, and made a high-pitched squealing sound.

A little spit on the rubber ring and firm digit press later it was back in place but telling me the five mile journey would take just over an hour.

That led to a panic. How could I explain missing the media day when work had stumped up the clash for an overnight stay?

Driving like a cross between Lewis Hamilton and Commandant Lassard in Police Academy, I headed for the hills.

Four minutes later I arrived, 20 minutes early and with the sat nav insisting I turned left and hidden in the glove compartment.

Breakfast was served, I went continental and tucked heartily into a tray of Danish Pastries. I had more to give too but was forced to step away when a friendly member of team King pointed out "you seem to be enjoying those".

The sugar rush also led to a brief moment of light-headedness as the 21-strong Festival team were paraded before us.

By the end I was convinced the trainer would have at least seven winners at the Festival. Now the blood sugar level is back to normal and the clammy palm sweats are over, I've settled on three.

Pennek in the Pertemps Final is one of my bets of the week - but that may be the almonds and raisins talking.

The journey back included a stretch on my least-favourite road this country has to offer - the A42.

As a lorry decided to overtake another lorry on the dual carriageway, a seven-minute manoeuvre which reduced the outside lane to 30mph, I bemoaned the number of HGV's on the road.

My travelling companion, Nick Doggett, agreed and put forward a persuasive, long and tedious theory as to how a revamp of the canal network was needed.

He ended with a plea for the 8mph speed limit to be lifted on the nation's waterways.

I'd long before decided that for the rest of the Cheltenham build-up, the D Bomb rides alone.