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Willie Mullins won his third Grand National at AIntree - The Jockey Club/David Davies
The majesty of the Grand National is meant to lie in its mayhem. And yet with the all-conquering Willie Mullins weaving his sorcery once more, the world’s greatest steeplechase is becoming almost a machine-like spectacle.
The most decorated trainer of his generation did not simply claim a father-son triumph here at a sun-drenched Aintree, with 35-year-old Patrick propelling Nick Rockett to victory over defending champion I Am Maximus by 2½ lengths, but a clean sweep of the podium places. Five of the top seven were from his Closutton yard. Where the National has always revelled in its distinction as the people’s race, it is now increasingly a showpiece for a supreme Irish dynasty.
Not that Mullins would ever regard glory on this stage as a fate pre-ordained. Racing’s man of iron visibly crumpled on seeing Patrick, an amateur, bring home his second straight National winner and third overall, bursting into tears beneath his broad-brimmed hat. For once, he could not even find the words. “Some result” was about all he could manage. At 68, he has been champion trainer of Britain, champion of Ireland, but the experience of seeing Patrick deliver the family’s finest day aboard a 33-1 shot just about floored him. Sometimes, even the toughest souls have a breaking point.
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Willie Mullins was overcome with emotion after seeing his son ride the winner of the Grand National - Shutterstock/Adam Vaughan
The 177th National turned into a duel between stablemates, as Nick Rockett denied I Am Maximum the first back-to-back success for six years, outlasting the favourite over the final strides. But the Mullins imprimatur was everywhere you looked, with Grangeclare West half a length further back in third, while Meetingofthewaters and Minella Cocooner completed the domination in fifth and seventh. It felt almost like a one-man annexation, even if there were plenty of connections who saw magic in the moment. None more so than owner Stewart Andrew, who lost his wife Sadie to cancer in 2022. She had always wanted a horse trained by Mullins, given that they shared the same roots in County Kilkenny. There could have been no more poetic fulfilment of her wish.
“Out of such sadness, joy has been born,” Andrew said. “Nick Rockett has done it all for me.” So, too, has Mullins, the true horse whisperer of his time. Genius can be a claim made of too many in sport but Mullins, normally imperturbable in his demeanour, is truly a patrician phenomenon, turning Aintree into his fiefdom in just the same way he has managed at Cheltenham. King of the Cotswolds, master of Merseyside, he is fast running out of honours to stockpile. Winning is an addiction he finds impossible to kick.
“Getting me to win a National is probably his greatest achievement,” said Patrick, with admirable modesty. He, more than anybody, appreciated what this signified. He has witnessed the endless nuances of his father’s philosophy up close: the penchant for making decisions on instinct rather than sheets of data, the stubborn streak that leads him to finalise running plans only at the last minute. But here they shared a storyline as old as time, a win that spanned the generations. “The best day ever,” said Mullins, whose own father Paddy once had the largest stable in Ireland. “I’ll never surpass it. To have one horse run the National, but then to have one your son can ride? It’s millions to one, what happened today.”
Whether the 60,000 who had flocked to Aintree under cornflower skies shared this verdict was a moot point. For all that it is a privilege to watch a Mullins masterclass, the sheer bludgeoning power of the operation he has established sits uneasily with the true essence of the National, where the ultimate test of endurance should lend itself to the odd improbable outcome. This is unlikelier than ever, though, in the age of slick professionalism over which Mullins presides. True, plenty of rival contenders were still in contention with two fences left. But in the final reckoning, the only captivating battle was Mullins versus Mullins.
Does such pre-eminence suit the National? Perhaps not, but what transpired this time was by no means the fault of the race. In many ways, it has been restored to its former heights, with the trimming of the field from 40 to 34 and the shifting of the start time from 5.15 to 4pm producing optimum conditions for a riveting contest. What prevented this one from being an instant classic was the wonder of Mullins, who somehow extended his personal monopoly to the least predictable event of all. Familiarity in the winners’ enclosure can eventually breed contempt. But with Mullins, generous by nature and second to no one in his love of his craft, such responses seem misplaced. He deserved to bask in the emotion with Nick Rockett: winning father-and-son partnerships are rare in the National, with this one the first since Ted and Ruby Walsh shared the joy of Papillon’s victory in 2000. Rather than his takeover being a cause for lament, it is better surely to savour witnessing a virtuoso at work.
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