A Royal Garden Party

A Royal Garden Party

Every year Queen Elizabeth and the Duke of Edinburgh invite over 30,000 people to Buckingham Palace and Holyrood House in a series of four garden parties. These invitees comprise a selection of the great and the good who are making a special contribution to the people and communities of the United Kingdom.

The first anyone knows about the impending honour is when an envelope from the Lord Chamberlain arrives on the doormat declaring that Her Majesty has commanded him to invite Mr, Miss or Mrs Recipient to a Garden Party. The date and time are set, no alternatives. All you are expected to do is clear your diary, send back an RSVP laden with humble gratitude, and turn up at the appointed hour decked out in your Sunday best.

In addition to the souvenir invitation which you can proudly display on your mantelpiece, the envelope also contains the official invitation that you hand in to a traditional London Bobby at the Palace gates. You also receive a pile of paperwork telling you what you can and cannot do on the day. Much of this close printed instruction covers the rudimentary security that asks you to provide some form of picture ID - usually a passport in the UK - and a utility bill to prove that you really do live at 23 Acacia Gardens in Greater Snodworth.

But that's not all, because some of the few are chosen to be presented to Her Majesty or His Royal Highness during the afternoon. Each of their highnesses will have looked down the guest list and indicated who they would like to say a personal hello to on the day. That's when the second envelope arrives from an equerry of the Palace saying how delighted they are that you are coming, and how much his or her highness is looking forward to meeting you. Clear step-by-step instructions are included explaining where and when you should meet said equerry to arrange the royal audience.

So filled with excitement and kitted out in formal attire totally unsuited for a hot summer afternoon in London, you arrive at the Palace and join the slow moving line which shuffles at a snail's pace towards the royal abode. As you creep forward tourists take your picture and scan you with their video cameras in case you are someone important. They will sort it out when they get home, but for now you may be a celebrity and your ego enjoys the unexpected attention.

A brief look at invitation and passport - the utility bill wasn't needed - and you are in, striding across the gravel forecourt and through the carriage arch that usually welcomes only visiting dignitaries and foreign diplomats for a royal banquet or investiture. Another queue takes you past red uniformed guards who gently remove your official invitation from quivering hands - but no matter the Lord Chamberlain's card is still on prominent display at home.

Lush carpets, gold leaf, highly decorated ceilings and delicate furniture that has obviously never seen a human bottom, pass by your field of view as you file through the Bow Room into the acres of park land that the royal family laughingly calls a garden. If that is a garden then the couple of thousand square feet of greenery that grows outside my patio door in Berkshire must now be renamed a pocket handkerchief.

Military brass bands entertain us at opposite ends of the immense open space that sits between the rear of the Palace and the lake where small brown ducks do their royal thing. Even the quacks and squawks of Her Majesty's fowl have a certain upper class feel as they swim and waddle around this oasis of British history in the centre of London.

It is hard to concentrate during the first thirty minutes because you have been invited to an audience with the Duke of Edinburgh. Nothing much to do during that time except soak up the atmosphere and stare at women wearing hats that must have looked good in the department store but now take on a life of their own in the stiff summer breeze. Delicate fronds of every colour and material shake violently on the end of thin material clad wires like frenetic butterflies on speed.

At last the time to meet arrives, the equerry gives you detailed instructions on royal etiquette and then leads you out onto the lawn where tall, distinguished ex-Guardsmen use long rolled black umbrellas to maintain the corridor along which the royals will walk, stopping here and there to chat informally with their special guests. The importance of keeping yourself rooted to your allotted spot on the close cropped lawn is emphasised time and again to ensure that their royal highnesses do not address the President of Little Middleton's charitable society as the chairman of the Chipping Sodbury centipede rescue club.

These little groups of special guests are arranged carefully along two corridors, one for 'him' and another for 'her', facing this way and that as though they had simply arrived there at random. Small informal gatherings positioned and ordered with GPS like precision to ensure that your two or three minutes of royal conversation pass without a hitch.

Yes, after all the excitement and build up to the day, two or three minutes are all you get. But as their majesties are charming company and excellent conversationalists that brief period of polite conversation is plenty, more than enough to warrant the butterflies that have been partying in your stomach for the past couple of weeks. What did the Duke say during our conversation? Well that's between him and us. But what I can tell you is that we were all smiling and laughing as he wandered off to join Her Majesty in the royal tea tent.

We headed off in the opposite direction to enjoy the rows of tea, cakes and crustless sandwiches that were waiting for us in the long green striped marquee along the west side of the Palace gardens. Threading our way past fellow guests seated at small round tables working their way through mountains of sandwiches and sticky cakes washed down by real - yes absolutely genuine - lemonade.

Amazingly for an English tea party napkins were nowhere to be seen unless you specifically asked; maybe their majesties didn't want to risk pieces of soiled paper fluttering around their beautifully kept gardens. Whatever the reason we dutifully rinsed our sticky fingers in a spare glass of water and strode out across the lawns to take a tour of this vast suburban acreage.

Take Kew Gardens - a major centre of horticulture in south west London - and re-plant a large selection of its stock in the grounds of a major historical landmark. Add hundreds of small plastic labels bearing impossibly long Latin names scattered along broad paths and small magical tunnels through burgeoning undergrowth, and you have the garden that we strolled through that sunny afternoon.

By 6pm it was all over, the national anthem heralded the departure of the royal family, and brass bands joined Beefeaters in perfectly synchronised formations to march back to barracks. Once again we experienced the slow walk back through the Palace, the scrunch across the quadrangle, and the crowds of tourists adding you to their pictures of Buckingham Palace, Nelson's Column and the Houses of Parliament as you passed by the scarlet uniformed guards in the courtyard.

As we looked back through the railings at the home of the royal family who had shown us such warmth and hospitality that afternoon we felt a great sense of national pride. We had walked along corridors that have seen the cream of the world's great leaders, and enjoyed a building that instantly symbolises the essence of British tradition and culture to billions of people across the globe. It was a memorable afternoon, a memorable day. God bless their majesties, God Save the Queen.



	Every year Queen Elizabeth and the Duke of Edinburgh invite over 30,000 people to Buckingham Palace and Holyrood House in a series of four garden parties. These invitees comprise a selection of the great and the good who are making a special contribution to the people and communities of the United Kingdom. The first anyone knows about the impending honour is when an envelope from the Lord Chamberlain arrives on the doormat declaring that Her Majesty has commanded him to invite Mr, Miss or Mrs Recipient to a Garden Party. The date and time are set, no alternatives. All you are expected to do is clear your diary, send back an RSVP laden with humble gratitude, and turn up at the appointed hour decked out in your Sunday best. In addition to the souvenir invitation which you can proudly display on your mantelpiece, the envelope also contains the official invitation that you hand in to a traditional London Bobby at the Palace gates. You also receive a pile of paperwork telling you what you can and cannot do on the day. Much of this close printed instruction covers the rudimentary security that asks you to provide some form of picture ID - usually a passport in the UK - and a utility bill to prove that you really do live at 23 Acacia Gardens in Greater Snodworth. But that's not all, because some of the few are chosen to be presented to Her Majesty or His Royal Highness during the afternoon. Each of their highnesses will have looked down the guest list and indicated who they would like to say a personal hello to on the day. That's when the second envelope arrives from an equerry of the Palace saying how delighted they are that you are coming, and how much his or her highness is looking forward to meeting you. Clear step-by-step instructions are included explaining where and when you should meet said equerry to arrange the royal audience. So filled with excitement and kitted out in formal attire totally unsuited for a hot summer afternoon in London, you arrive at the Palace and join the slow moving line which shuffles at a snail's pace towards the royal abode. As you creep forward tourists take your picture and scan you with their video cameras in case you are someone important. They will sort it out when they get home, but for now you may be a celebrity and your ego enjoys the unexpected attention. A brief look at invitation and passport - the utility bill wasn't needed - and you are in, striding across the gravel forecourt and through the carriage arch that usually welcomes only visiting dignitaries and foreign diplomats for a royal banquet or investiture. Another queue takes you past red uniformed guards who gently remove your official invitation from quivering hands - but no matter the Lord Chamberlain's card is still on prominent display at home. Lush carpets, gold leaf, highly decorated ceilings and delicate furniture that has obviously never seen a human bottom, pass by your field of view as you file through the Bow Room into the acres of park land that the royal family laughingly calls a garden. If that is a garden then the couple of thousand square feet of greenery that grows outside my patio door in Berkshire must now be renamed a pocket handkerchief. Military brass bands entertain us at opposite ends of the immense open space that sits between the rear of the Palace and the lake where small brown ducks do their royal thing. Even the quacks and squawks of Her Majesty's fowl have a certain upper class feel as they swim and waddle around this oasis of British history in the centre of London. It is hard to concentrate during the first thirty minutes because you have been invited to an audience with the Duke of Edinburgh. Nothing much to do during that time except soak up the atmosphere and stare at women wearing hats that must have looked good in the department store but now take on a life of their own in the stiff summer breeze. Delicate fronds of every colour and material shake violently on the end of thin material clad wires like frenetic butterflies on speed. At last the time to meet arrives, the equerry gives you detailed instructions on royal etiquette and then leads you out onto the lawn where tall, distinguished ex-Guardsmen use long rolled black umbrellas to maintain the corridor along which the royals will walk, stopping here and there to chat informally with their special guests. The importance of keeping yourself rooted to your allotted spot on the close cropped lawn is emphasised time and again to ensure that their royal highnesses do not address the President of Little Middleton's charitable society as the chairman of the Chipping Sodbury centipede rescue club. These little groups of special guests are arranged carefully along two corridors, one for 'him' and another for 'her', facing this way and that as though they had simply arrived there at random. Small informal gatherings positioned and ordered with GPS like precision to ensure that your two or three minutes of royal conversation pass without a hitch. Yes, after all the excitement and build up to the day, two or three minutes are all you get. But as their majesties are charming company and excellent conversationalists that brief period of polite conversation is plenty, more than enough to warrant the butterflies that have been partying in your stomach for the past couple of weeks. What did the Duke say during our conversation? Well that's between him and us. But what I can tell you is that we were all smiling and laughing as he wandered off to join Her Majesty in the royal tea tent. We headed off in the opposite direction to enjoy the rows of tea, cakes and crustless sandwiches that were waiting for us in the long green striped marquee along the west side of the Palace gardens. Threading our way past fellow guests seated at small round tables working their way through mountains of sandwiches and sticky cakes washed down by real - yes absolutely genuine - lemonade. Amazingly for an English tea party napkins were nowhere to be seen unless you specifically asked; maybe their majesties didn't want to risk pieces of soiled paper fluttering around their beautifully kept gardens. Whatever the reason we dutifully rinsed our sticky fingers in a spare glass of water and strode out across the lawns to take a tour of this vast suburban acreage. Take Kew Gardens - a major centre of horticulture in south west London - and re-plant a large selection of its stock in the grounds of a major historical landmark. Add hundreds of small plastic labels bearing impossibly long Latin names scattered along broad paths and small magical tunnels through burgeoning undergrowth, and you have the garden that we strolled through that sunny afternoon. By 6pm it was all over, the national anthem heralded the departure of the royal family, and brass bands joined Beefeaters in perfectly synchronised formations to march back to barracks. Once again we experienced the slow walk back through the Palace, the scrunch across the quadrangle, and the crowds of tourists adding you to their pictures of Buckingham Palace, Nelson's Column and the Houses of Parliament as you passed by the scarlet uniformed guards in the courtyard. As we looked back through the railings at the home of the royal family who had shown us such warmth and hospitality that afternoon we felt a great sense of national pride. We had walked along corridors that have seen the cream of the world's great leaders, and enjoyed a building that instantly symbolises the essence of British tradition and culture to billions of people across the globe. It was a memorable afternoon, a memorable day. God bless their majesties, God Save the Queen.