Granted, some irate A&E patients, or a group of suppressed motorists on the M50 may well declare a new republic from the steps of the GPO tomorrow, but even this will not provide as memorable a backdrop as the events in Dublin at Easter 1916.

Much like this morning, that day began with some curiously dressed people marching up and down O'Connell Street, while most of the smart people headed off to enjoy a day at the races.

Among them was Ernest Jordison.

Ernest was the head man for BP in Ireland at the time, and even back then there must have been serious money in oil. He rented what he described as "the best motor car in Ireland, " picked up some friends and headed for Fairyhouse without a second thought for speed cameras, penalty points or Martin Cullen. They were somewhat puzzled by the sight of trams, loaded with armed volunteers coming against them in the traffic, but they kept going anyway.

At about the same time as Jordison's merry band were roaring towards county Meath, Captain Gary Holohan set off on a sporting excursion of a different kind.

Holohan and his rebel force had been instructed to take the British Army's main ammunition dump at the fort on Magazine Hill in the Phoenix Park. Their orders were clear. Capture the fort, blow the whole thing to kingdom come, and cut off the supply of arms to the crown forces in the city centre.

They devised a plan so intricate in its cunning that it has entered the annals of military history and its brilliance is probably still studied at Westpoint and Sandhurst.

They kicked a football over the wall, knocked at the front door and asked if they could have it back. Please. The response of the sentry is not recorded literally, but was something akin to, "No problem, lads. Sure come on in and get it yourselves."

By this stage the Jordison party had rejoined Irish high society and the military brass at Fairyhouse, but news of momentous events in the city had started to reach the course. He wrote later that there were "rumours of terrible happenings in Dublin that caused great commotion in the reserved grandstand." No one remembers the effect the news had in the unreserved enclosure.

There was somebody else involved in the grandstand commotion that Capt Holohan would have loved to have gotten his hands on at that particular moment. The first part of his mission had gone well. The guards were taken prisoner, and the rebels controlled the arsenal.

All that was needed now was access to the main ammunition dump so that they could blow it up and make a quick escape, but they would have been seriously disappointed to find that the key, like Ernest Jordison, had decamped to Fairyhouse for a day of racing. It was nicely secure in the warmth of the inside pocket of the Fort's chief officer. They set off a half-hearted explosion that failed to do much damage, commandeered a few rifles and headed back to town to rejoin the fight. It was Capt Holohan who eventually surrendered the Four Courts six days later.

Back at Fairyhouse, more history was being made. All Sorts, a six-year-old chestnut gelding out of a half breed mare won the Grand National easily, with Jack Lynn in the saddle. Lynn was one of the very few jockeys ever to have ridden in both the Irish Derby and Grand National, a feat unlikely to be repeated anytime soon. It is unclear if the key bearer, or even Ernest Jordison, backed All Sorts, but when he drove the ?best motor car in Ireland' back into Dublin that evening he would have noticed that things had changed. Changed utterly.

Easter Monday and the Irish Grand National are inextricably linked in Irish consciousness, and not only because it provided a colourful backdrop to the 1916 Rising. Fairyhouse, originally the site for a point to point meeting organised by The Ward Union Hunt, staged the race for the first time in 1870.

Somewhat prophetically, the initial winner was a horse called Sir Robert Peel, named after the British Prime Minister who had made a career opposing Catholic emancipation. He also founded a police force that ruthlessly suppressed the Fenian uprising, the spiritual inspiration for the rebellion that almost ruined the 1916 Grand National.

The owners of the first winner were rewarded with a prize of 167 sovereigns, impressive in its day, but dwarfed by the quarter of a million euro the winning owners will take home in the Powers Grand National tomorrow.

The largest field the race has seen was in 1929 when 66 horses faced the starter, among them a six-year-old mare, Alike, piloted by the diminutive amateur, Mr FW ?Frank' Wise. Wise too had spent much of 1916 involved in military engagements, this time in the skies over Europe as a fighter pilot in the Royal Flying Corps.

Frank obviously didn't take his last name too literally as he came back from the war without three of the fingers he went in with, but despite this digital deficit he readily saw off his 65 opponents in the 1929 race.

His victory was even more remarkable considering the other useful body part he had left behind in the Great War.

Frank Wise won the biggest ever Irish National riding with a wooden leg.

The 50th anniversary of the Easter Rising in 1966 coincided with another great Fairyhouse race won by another famous flyer. Flyingbolt, the second greatest steeplechaser of all time, beat five opponents to win the first prize of £4,000. In doing so he credited his trainer, Tom Dreaper, with his seventh consecutive winner with seven different horses, including Arkle in 1964. An almost unbelievable achievement that will surely never be equalled.

It remains to be seen what nuggets of history will be made at Fairyhouse tomorrow, but rest assured that something will bubble up through the dead generations. Maybe the answer is buried within the names of the contestants. Dun Doire could ring home the Irish language theme, while Christy Roche's Far from Trouble has another good handle befitting the timing of this year's event.

Ernest Jordison was far from troubled when he returned to Dublin after his day out in 1916. As he made his way home through the terrible beauty of the city streets, he was shocked to see children playing cricket close to the bodies and blood of dead horses.

He was stopped by the rebels who held Annesley Bridge near Fairview. When he told them he was returning from the races one of them asked if he knew the fate of the horse he had backed in the big race. It was the start of what was to be an unlucky week for the volunteer - his horse had only come in third.

Its name? Civil War.