I went to Eton on June 2nd for The Fourth of June.  I’ll explain that, later, but first a brief history.  Eton College was founded in 1440 by Henry VI so it’s still working out the kinks.  It’s probably best known for the uniforms: white, stiff collared shirt and tie, waistcoat, morning coat and pin-striped trousers.  Well, famous for the uniform and its graduates (Old Etonians), past and present.  Princes William and Harry (just named the coolest man in the world), the current Prime Minister and 18 others, the first Duke of Wellington (“The battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton”), Hugh Laurie, Sebastian Flyte, Captain Hook.

Imagine the most beautiful English summer day: high blue skies, heavily-scented roses, blowsy and nodding in a soft breeze, sun warm and lemony, 15th and 16th century buildings and the largest expanse of mown lawn in all of Europe.  Can you see it?  Now, fill that vision with beautiful boys in tailcoats wandering by trailing champagne and privilege.  Add a cricket match–all white kit and red balls, polo (yes!), tents and gazebos shading picnic spreads of such lavishness you expect someone to ask Beulah to peel a grape, Aston Martins and vintage Mercs parked up next to battered Morris Minors and shiny Range Rovers, song floating out of the Chapel, and a slew of the singularly tartiest-looking young women I have ever seen.  Do none of these girls have a full length mirror?  Not a decent set of pins among them one man commented as he watched three (unfortunately) mini-skirted, high heeled lad-ettes wobble across the lawn.  Sorry, that was cruel.

I could describe the number of people whose accents were so posh they were nearly unintelligible–if they had any more marbles in their mouths they might have choked.  I could tell you about the coma I fell into as someone tried to explain the school vocabulary: Beak (teacher), Pop, Oppidans, King’s Scholars, boffins, flogging day, spongebag trousers.  I could say I tried to hack off my own arm with a butter knife when grabbed by a complete stranger who heard my accent and launched into a long, meandering, champagne-fueled speech about “You Americans…”  I could do all that and it would be funny and true (and true to my often less than charitable attitude).  But, it would not be fair, because that day was perfect.  It was celebratory, moving and emotional, joyful and inclusive.  I was one in a party of some 25 parents and grandparents of students.  I was treated as an honored guest and a welcome new friend.  I was feted and petted and thoroughly spoiled by my hosts.

I got lost on my way to Eton.  Oh, I made it down the M4 and into the ancient town of Eton, Windsor, the tower of the castle a beacon.  It was on the tiny, winding lanes that I had to be talked down–instruments-only landing–by my friend Fiona who had invited me to share her son’s last Fourth of June.  While she herded her own party to the riverside to watch the dragon boats paddle by, her son rowing like a roman slave, she was also telling me “Darling, don’t worry, the next left will take you to me, I promise.”  She was right, I found her, waving in the shade of a chestnut tree, her white frock coat a beacon in the sea of blue blazers and grey suits.  She spent the morning leading me around the school, as familiar with every nook and cranny after five years as her son is.  “Quick,” he called to us, “There’s talk the library’s brought out a Shakespeare folio!”  “Come,” he said, taking my elbow like the gentleman he is, “It’s time for lunch.”

I first came to Eton when my son James was on a residential rowing course.  He was able to live in the houses and practice for a week, rowing on the river from dawn til dusk in the shadow of Windsor Castle.  At the end of the course, the boys performed the ancient procession of boats.  This procession was established for George III’s birthday (“the one who lost America”).  The ancient, fragile, narrow, wooden shells are brought out and the boys row to a spot, stand holding their oar upright, and tip their hats, first to the right to George, then to the left to the current monarch.  You cannot imagine how difficult that is, balancing in a boat that is maybe 24 inches across.  Now, when James did it, all the boys tipped their baseball caps and wore their Eton Rowing Course tee shirts.  When the elite rowing students do it on Fourth of June they are dressed in Napoleanic-era wool naval uniforms and wear straw boaters decorated with fresh flowers.  The hats are so heavy with blossoms it is a wonder they can raise their heads.  As they doff their hats the boys shake them over the river and the petals fall into the water and are carried away by the current.  Boat after boat comes by, hat after hat is lifted.  I do not think I have ever seen anything so beautiful and ever so slightly heartbreaking.  Watching those peony, rose, Queen Anne’s Lace and daisy petals scattered on the water, drifting down stream and sending their scent back to me, it was as if I was seeing childhood passing.

It is right and proper that one of the last traditional events I have the privilege to attend in England was one of the most iconic in every way.  These boys, these Brideshead Revisited extras in their Eton dress, they swagger through the day as gorgeous as can be.  They shout and sing silly songs.  They drink champagne and gratefully fall into their parents’ cars to be taken home for half term.  They tumble onto the grass in fits of laughter at each other.  They do not remove their morning coats even as the temperature reaches 80 degrees.  And, they offer me their arm as we walk together.  They stand back, gesturing for me to go first and take my hand to help me over the grass.  They pull out my chair and tell me about their favourite Beak or whisper that it will be awfully nice to be home with Mum for a while.

So, I am being escorted out of my sixteen years in England by an extraordinary phalanx of gentlemen and ladies–some I know and love, others who simply know how to make me feel elegant, cherished and as beautiful as they are.  I take my hat off to you all.