It was a pleasure last Saturday to see the graciousness and lack of vanity with which the trainer of Mon Mome, the (staggering 100/1) winner of the Grand National, acknowledged her victory.

Venetia Williams has qualities that would have allowed her to succeed in whatever career she’d chosen. She’s brave, independent and dedicated. She had been a good amateur race-rider herself until, within a fortnight of hitting the turf at Becher’s Brook in the 1988 National, she fell again at Worcester and broke her neck. It augured well that she came through a potentially fatal or seriously debilitating accident still able to walk and pursue the next phase of her life with horses.

Starting with former Herefordshire trainer, John Edwards, she mapped out a comprehensive training path for herself, attached for several years to the all-conquering Martin Pipe yard in Somerset, as well as spending time in American and Australian yards. Setting up on her own 14 seasons ago, she never lost a chance to catch up on any innovations in equine medicine or training technique. I was once sitting next to her at dinner with the then burgeoning (now arrived) vet-turned trainer Mark Johnston, a man bursting with revolutionary ideas (and strong opinions). Normally an unquenchable chatterbox, I couldn’t get a word in.

One distinctive aspect of Venetia’s yard is the amount of time her inmates are outmates. She insists that as many as possible of her charges spend as much time as they can in the open air, ambling about, communing and grazing contentedly in the paddocks. This is a time-consuming routine (i.e.: expensive), which is, maybe, why it’s unusual in most yards, but the benefits were obvious from the way the unfancied Mon Mome romped up to the finish at Aintree last weekend, still fresh and full of running after four and half miles.

It must, of course, have been an experience overflowing with dreamlike qualities for Liam Treadwell, the young winning jockey in his first National ride (and that jolliest of hockey-sticks, Clare Balding even apologised to him afterwards for making him display his less than pretty dental arrangements to the millions of viewers.)

But this was the 13th time Venetia had sent out a runner, no doubt with her usual professional pragmatism about the possible outcome. Her quiet dignity and lack of triumphalism over her unexpected win were in stark contrast to the excitability of the last (and only other) woman trainer to win the National – the rambunctious pudding known to the notoriously reliable John McCririck as the “Cuddly One”. (J. Francome, once asked on TV if Mrs Pitman really was cuddly, replied that she was “about as cuddly as a dead hedgehog.” I worked with her for two years, and I don’t know what he meant.)

My only regret over Mon Mome’s win was that I didn’t have a bet on either of Venetia’s runners, as I usually do because they often have a good chance, and because, secretly, I’ve always rather fancied her – which is as good a reason as any for backing a horse in the National.

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