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It’s just a small entry in today’s Bloodhorse, an item that most will doubtless glance at and dismiss.

Twenty year old thoroughbred Celtic Swing died from colitis yesterday.

I feel like I’m in a movie where some small notation in a blustery newspaper whisks a character away to a different time and a flood of exquisite memories…

A pub in Cork, 1995, I’m sitting forlorn after my father’s funeral. The priest, who had overseen the memorial service, approaches me and whispers, do you want to come racing? I do, and we leave…

A priest and a bookie are my companions as we arrive at a Punchestown racetrack. Gloomy overcast skies, cool temperatures and splotches of rain. We’re discussing horses and conversation turns to the latest sensation, an unbeaten colt named Celtic Swing. We huddle around a TV as replays of the horse’s two year old campaign are shown, a prelude to today’s 2,000 Guineas.

A four length win at Ayr, an eight length win at Ascot, a ten length score at Doncaster, a stroll on the lovely soft grass of Newbury. I hadn’t been back to the Isle in years and this horse was like a magician rekindling my love for European racing and its glorious permutations. Personal circumstances had left me hollow but the massive colt was a balm, an admonition that life would go on.

I became a massive proponent of a Celtic Swing move to North America, where the large colt would have excelled on the coiffed and flat turf courses. He never came, and his career ended in ignominy after an injury suffered during the Irish Derby. I could wax poetic about the effect he had on me, how at a difficult time his fire and passion both inspired and comforted.

A decade later I was roaming the Irish National Stud. It was a quick visit before a day at the Curragh and I was enchanted by the beauty of the grounds and the presence of gorgeous thoroughbreds from different eras. Approaching a large pen, I saw the name tag that took my breath away, and there he was. I whooped and hollered and ended up grabbing his neck in a bear hug. During an hour conversation I doubtless looked a fool and scared off any other visitor, but I was compelled to ramble on about his brilliance and just pet him and spend time with him.

I didn’t want to leave and looked forward to visits in the future.

It speaks, I guess, to the bond we can form with animals, the human desire to connect and embrace totems of our difficult times.

It’s just a bit of type in the Bloodhorse today, something most people will give nothing more than a passing glance.

 But I’ll mourn Celtic Swing.