I never met Henry Cecil.  Very, very attractive human beings are rare, and superb trainers are even rarer. To have passed a lifetime not that far away from one who earned both accolades and to have neglected to find my way into the presence is negligence indeed, and I have already started living to regret it.

For the last year or two I have asked myself when he first became something special in the hearts of the racing public and beyond. Not when he started training, surely? Easy access to a yard, owners and a high-class string of horses is not usually a short cut to popularity. Was it when he began a meteoric rise to the top of his profession? I doubt that too: achievement wins respect (and envy) rather than affection.

In the next chapter of his life he fell from grace in more ways than one and almost walked the plank as a trainer. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred that sort of progression makes people shrug and introduce their children to Icarus, who flew too high, too quick; his equipment failed and he fell with an almighty splash into the Aegean Sea.  Strangely enough, the racing public didn’t use Cecil as the subject of a morality tale. Instead, it seems to me now, looking back, the general reaction was something like my own. “What a pity! Hope it’s not the end. Fingers crossed that he gets back on track.”

When he did indeed get back on track, joy was unconfined. That’s when I began to suspect that something out of the ordinary was going on. When he messed up, the racing public’s reaction had not been to sneer, but to feel concern. When he made a comeback, concern turned to delight. The human race is not usually so generous.

That was just the beginning. When the news was spread abroad that he was ill, the sympathy was phenomenal and extended far beyond the racing world. But this was easy to explain: the public loves a fighter, and as the months, then years, went by, Henry Cecil was revealed as a colossus in that regard.

For those in the best of health training horses is difficult enough. For anyone with cancer it is nigh on impossible – but not for him. He trained as well as ever, and he completed the course by passing with distinction the ultimate test which he faced in the management of Frankel.

For several days I have asked myself who else has ever touched the public’s heart like Sir Henry Cecil. Sir Winston Churchill is the only name that springs to mind. Winston had the larger fan-base, but Henry’s includes some very good judges: people who appreciate the beauty of the thoroughbred and can work out mixed doubles and trebles aren’t stupid.

What was the secret? I don’t know about Churchill but I’ll have a guess about Sir Henry. When Frankel won at York, he looked so ill I was sure he wouldn’t last the night – but he did. The same was true at Ascot. But on neither occasion did he look like a very sick old man – he looked like a very sick young man. Young people (like puppies) usually have enormous charm; it is a safeguard which enables them to survive the stages when physical weakness and youthful stupidity make them vulnerable.  Most of us lose that charm as we grow older – more’s the pity. Henry Cecil grew up to become a racehorse trainer of genius. Perhaps, by some delightful trick of nature, he also stayed young and charming, bold and brave, come rain come shine,  throughout his life. If so, no wonder so many people took him to their hearts.