Let's make St. George's Day a national holiday ... with this as the national feast

If there's one thing I could change about my adopted homeland, it would be patriotism. The Welsh, Irish and Scots revel in distinct identities, national symbols, local traditions and flag waving. Doing the same in England, outside of the sporting arena or proms concerts, is highly suspect. I understand imperial guilt, and the fear of association with the far right, but I think it's time to embrace the positive.

I'd start by making St. George's Day a proper national holiday. Give people the day off work. Bring back old traditions (yes, including Morris dancing) and invent new ones. Create a focus ... as the French have with Bastille Day and the Americans with July 4th ... for a celebration of being English.

We did our part here in North Hampshire with a pull-out-all-the-stops dinner party. Our celebration of English cuisine was traditional, seasonal and sourced locally. Almost everything was English. We made two exceptions ... Gascon foie gras and Bordeaux wine ... something we decided to allow because Eleanor of Aquitaine made both territories English for a while. And because, no matter how good English wine has become, we've yet to find a red with the body and deep fruit necessary for a hearty, beefy main.

Here's the menu.

The amuse bouche:
Minted pea soup (served in shot glasses) and home-made pork scratchings
served with Hambledon (Hampshire) Classic Cuvee

The soup is very easy to whip up (recipe here) and can be done well in advance. In fact, it's best made the day before to let the flavours marry. And it's good cold, too, so an excellent choice for summer parties and picnics. We use Tom Kerridge's recipe for the pork scratchings ... one of those things where, once you have had it made at home, you'll never want a commercial variety again. Just be prepared for the mess it makes of your oven. The Hambledon is one of our favourites of all the English sparkling wine we've tried, and made less than an hour from our house.

The starter:
Cornish crab and Mayfield (Sussex) cheese soufflé, shaved salad of new season asparagus
served with Kenton Vineyard (Devon) Estate White 2014


This recipe worked beautifully, with the souffles puffing up more than double their size. The trickiest bit is getting them out of a hot bain marie, onto a plate and to the table before they collapse too far. Crab is in season right now, and you can get picked white meat in Cornish Fishmonger. The salad looks elegant and "cheffy" but it's actually ridiculously easy: use a vegetable peeler to create ribbons of asparagus stem. Quickly poach and chill the asparagus tops. Dress the raw veg with olive oil, lemon juice and pepper. Add in the tops, and serve.
bulk, delivered to your door, from the

The Kenton is an excellent choice if you want to go English with a white table wine that's fruity, light and flexible with most starters. At just a bit over £10 a bottle, it's also better value for money than many of the equivalent English labels. We sourced ours from Caviste at Newlyns Farm Shop.

The main:
Beef Wellington, bubble & squeak, broad beans on pureed wild garlic
served with Frank Phelan, Saint-Estephe, 2004

Wellington is my husband's "go to" special occasion recipe. (It was the centrepiece of the first meal Newlyns, who will cut to order to exactly the size and shape we want), and brushing it with a coat of spicy mustard adds a bit of piquancy that balances the richness of the other ingredients. Mr. Bencard's latest innovation is mixing the mushroom duxelle (which we make with fresh chestnut mushrooms and dried porcini, to deepen the woody flavour) with the foie gras to make a combined paste. It's much easier to coat the beef with than using two separate elements.
he ever cooked for me.) There are many variations of the recipe online; my biggest advice is not to skimp on the ingredients. I've had some Wellingtons ruined by mealy liver pate. We always try to get our hands on proper foie gras and, if we can't, use the best and smoothest duck liver pate we can buy. Obviously, really good fillet steak is a given (we love the butchers at

We got a case of the Bordeaux as a wedding gift in 2011. Wine expert Oz Clark wrote in his 2016 guide that it was at peak and ready to drink. He was right.

The pudding:
St. George's tart, clotted cream ice cream
served with Chapel Down (Kent) Nectar, Late Harvest, 2013

I confess I used shop-bought ice cream. And I'm still perfecting my frangipane tart. It's something I learned at Gascon Cooking School last year and it's essentially very easy but, as with any recipe, you need to remember those little nuances. Like how you must cream the butter and sugar first, and only then add the egg a little at a time (which I did remember) and how you should blind bake the pastry cases as well as refrigerating them for half an hour (which I didn't). The great thing about frangipane tart is that you can do variations with most fruit. I find it particularly good with rhubarb. To create the cross of St. George, I put rhubarb jam on the bottom of the tart, then the frangipane. Then I used batons of rhubarb, which I'd roasted in the oven with lots of sugar until they were soft, but not falling apart, to create the cross.

The Nectar is a fantastic dessert wine, sweet but not too cloying. You can read about our visit to the winery here.

As a celebratory feast, I don't think it gets much better. And it would be hard to get any more English.

Once established as an official holiday, I'd suggest moving the big meal forward to mid-afternoon, like Christmas or American Thanksgiving. Then everyone could adjourn to the sitting room for a post-prandial national viewing of Shakespeare. Who, quite fittingly, was born and died on St. George's Day. This being the 400th anniversary of his death, the BBC did exactly the kind of celebratory broadcast I imagined last night. But we were cooking and feasting. Shakespeare is a treat I'll save for later in the week.

Chiltern Firehouse deserves its fame. But check your credit limits before you go.

Google "Chiltern Firehouse", and you're likely to find as much about it being an "in" spot for the celebrity set as you are to see people talking about its food. Since it opened in 2014, this remodelled Victorian Firehouse in Marylebone has been the spot to see and be seen. Tables have been rarer than foie gras in California ... so I was delighted when a friend pulled in a favour to grab us one last week.

I was looking forward to the experience, but wasn't expecting that much from the food. Wafer-thin actresses whose idea of dinner is a small plate of greens are hardly my go-to arbiters of fine dining. I'm delighted to say: how wrong I was!

The Chiltern Firehouse delivered an extraordinary meal, notable for its confident and creative balance of textures. There were beautifully complementary wines, genial service and a buzzy atmosphere. The drawback? It's priced for those celebrity diners. Even for those accustomed to London fine dining prices, this is a save-up-for-a-special-occasion restaurant. I have done the chef's menu, with wine flight, at several Michelin star places for the same amount I spent on three a la carte courses, my share of two bottles of wine (between four) and coffee here.

My starter of roast garlic custard with peas, broad beans and bacon crumb gave me my first insight into the textural experience that was to define the evening for me. Custard unctuously smooth and comforting, balanced by the bite of fresh garden peas lightly cooked to a sweet al dente, kicked into the taste stratosphere by crunchy, salty, umami bacon crumbs. One of the most memorable starters I've had in ages.

The whole table wanted the day's special sea bass. We'd ordered, and chosen and started on the wine (a Gavi, at £37 one of the cheaper wines on the list) when the waiter came back with apologies that they were all out. Given that we sat down at the unusually early time of 6:30, that's a black mark against their kitchen management. The advantage, however, was that it pushed two of us into ordering the pork, and the other two into a shared, roasted lamb served Middle-Eastern style with flatbread and an array of tiny sides.

I sampled the latter. Even though lamb is my least-favourite meat, I would have happily tucked in with gusto. But my choice was far better. Iberico pork, perfectly pink and beautifully seasoned, with cuttlefish, served with a wild garlic puree topped with broad beans and broken rice porridge. The last bit brought in that crunch again. As did toasted spices strewn atop the exquisite truffled buckwheat polenta I had on the side. This is a serious candidate for a last-meal-on-Earth discussion.

And the food was made even better by the appearance of schioppetino on the menu. Not only did its light, yet fruit-rich and peppery profile go well with both meat choices ... it worked its usual treat of shortcutting to a great relationship with the sommelier. (For another story of how that happened, read this.) When I shared my delight about the appearance of this unusual variety on their list, he immediately grew enthusiastic and we swapped stories about our schioppetino experiences. Ten minutes later, he quietly appeared at my elbow and slipped me a glass of something, on the house, he thought I might appreciate trying. An impressive '92 Saint-Julien Bordeaux. Which, at least in part, eased the pain over moving up to a much more expensive wine to match our alternative main courses.

Dessert presented a challenge. Key lime pie? As every Floridian knows (and, having spent all my formative holidays there, I claim honorary affiliation), a key lime is a specific variety that only comes from the Florida Keys. They're smaller and have a thinner skin than other limes, and are known for their distinct sweet and bitter balance. Where, I wanted to know, did they source their limes from? Because I didn't want an imposter. This threw the waiters into a bit of confusion, but I finally got my answer from the kitchen. Not Floridian, but a Brazilian variety they thought was close. They promised they did something very unique with their recipe. Two Floridians had tried it thus far: one loved it, one wasn't impressed. They'd like my opinion. (Although not enough to comp me the course!)

So I gave it a go. Stunning appearance, the right flavour profile on the lime ... though calling it key lime pie was quite a stretch. It was more like a lime fondant, with a baked outer layer collapsing to reveal a gooey citrus cream when punctured. The real star of the dish, however, was the topping. Sails of meringue wafer (crunch, again) studded with lime zest formed a roof over a quenelle of mascarpone. Eaten together, you'd swear the chef had subtly integrated white chocolate ... a classic friend of key lime ... but it was only an illusion. In the overall taste stakes, I would have been just as happy with a slice of the classic served up at Lauderdale-by-the-Sea's Aruba Beach Cafe. But as a fine-dining level dessert, it was memorable and delicious.

We didn't see anyone famous that night and, frankly, we didn't need to. The stars were on our plates, and in our glasses. And that was good enough for us.

Painting the Modern Garden: Sweet, soothing, but not enough

Confession time: I'm lukewarm on the Impressionists.

I understand their transformative influence on modern art. I appreciate the brushwork, the connection to nature, the capturing of a moment, the fascination with light. And yet I stand in a room of Monets and think: "All very pleasant. Would be fabulous as wallpaper, fabric or a mural in a garden room. But is it Great Art?"

I know, of course, that I am in a tiny minority. And I knew, the moment I saw it publicised, that the Royal Academy was on to a winner with Painting the Modern Garden: Monet to Matisse. Everyone's favourite artistic movement, combined with one of the Brits' greatest passions? A sell-out proposition. Indeed, getting tickets to this exhibit required serious advanced planning, despite the RA extending its hours. We slipped in just five days before the exhibition's close.

Yes, I enjoyed it. How could I not? I love gardens, and here were 10 galleries packed with gorgeous examples. While few canvases provoked rapt fascination, every painting was a thing of beauty and ... as spring brings my own garden to life ... a celebration of the new season.

Monet was the obvious star, dominating several galleries from start to finish. Already familiar with him as an artist, I was most intrigued by the chance to see how he developed as a gardener, from his "starter garden" at Argenteuil to the Giverny we all know. My favourites from his works were large, blue-tinted canvases painted at the end of his career when his eyesight was going. The undeniable climax for most viewers, however, would have been the display of three massive, watery canvases known as the Agapanthus Tryptich. Much was made of the RA bringing these together for the first time ever in Britain, though they've pulled it off several times in my home town of St. Louis. That's where the middle canvas lives ... the others coming from Kansas City and Cleveland.

All very soul-soothing and gorgeous. But I found other artists more captivating. My revelation was three Spaniards I'd never heard of: Santiago Rusinol, Joaquin Sorolla and Joaquin Mir y Trinxet.

All three moved far beyond pretty floral visions, drawing us in to magical gardens with mysterious lighting. I wanted to leap through the frames to explore. The best picture in the exhibition for me was Rusinol's Jardines de Monforte. You're standing in a classical garden room enclosed by walls of clipped evergreens. It's obviously approaching dusk on a summer's day; beyond the hedges the sun is still blazing, but here you can feel the cool relief of the growing shadows. You can practically hear the evening crickets begin to chirp. Nearby, Sorolla's depiction of his gardens in Madrid sent me searching for more when I got home. (Yes, still there. Open to public. Now on bucket list.) And Mir y Trinxet's Catalan gardens, flaming red in the setting sun, were beguiling visions of a fantasy world rather than our own.

Given the topic, the curators took a noble stab at making this show as much about gardening as about art. They explained that revolution was sweeping horticulture and painting, and that major movements like Arts and Crafts influenced both disciplines. Some of the paintings are displayed side-by-side with seed catalogues and gardening implements, and there's an entertaining room 2/3rds of the way through where you could sit down on teak garden furniture to watch films of Monet wandering around at Giverny and look at photos of the featured artists planting, pruning and watering.

But as someone really interested in gardening, they didn't go far enough. Broadway was mentioned briefly, as a favourite venue for John Singer Sargent. (His bold poppies, at left, were another favourite of mine. I could have done with more of him and less Monet.) Yet despite the Cotswolds reference, no paintings featured nearby Hidcote ... one of the most influential gardens of the 20th century. Nor Sissinghurst, or any of the other world-shaping gardens in this country. Almost everything depicted in the show was continental, with the majority in France.  Understandable if you're focusing on the most famous garden painters, but if you're linking art to horticulture ... for a show in London ... the absence of the great English gardens of the early 20th century is inexcusable. I also wanted to know how the artists might have influenced plant choice or colour schemes. We got a bit of a sense that the artists helped make dahlias and irises all the rage, but I wanted more. (There might have been more detail in the audio guide or the catalogue, but I explored without their help.)

Overall, it was an enjoyable show and I'm delighted I went. But for me, they tried to accomplish too much. I would have enjoyed a smaller exhibition, with less emphasis on Monet, that dug much deeper into connections with garden design. But that wouldn't have brought in the same crowds. On the basis of ticket sales alone, I suspect this is one of the most successful exhibitions the Royal Academy has put on in years.

The Sealed Knot brings history to life at Basing House

At least once each year we'll be subjected to another news story bemoaning how terrible the English are at history, accompanied by the inevitable vox pop interviews of natives who think Queen Victoria might have rebelled against the Romans while Winston Churchill fought the French. How this is possible in a country where history is so all-pervasive, accessible and real is a great mystery to me.

I suspect the members of the Sealed Knot share my frustration. In fact, they spend a good deal of their free time trying to inspire the kind of interest that will turn this trend around. The largest re-enactment society in Europe, the Sealed Knot has thousands of members who re-create the civil wars of the 1640s, complete with noisy artillery and impressive costumes. I'm just back from their re-enactment of the siege of Basing House. And while, sadly, the re-enactors outnumbered the spectators, I have no doubt that the children who attended will be inspired to learn more.

It's hard to believe from the sleepy village lanes and sheep-grazed mounds that remain today, but Basing House was once one of the grandest homes in England, similar to Hampton Court in both architecture and scale. Seat of the marquesses of Winchester, it had hosted every monarch from Henry VIII through James II. Inevitably, such tight connections to the royal family made the house a royalist stronghold in the Civil Wars. It was besieged for three years before the final battle in 1645, when just 300 remaining defenders finally couldn't hold the house against more than 7,000 parliamentarians.

It's the final day of this battle the Sealed Knot turns up to re-enact every year. Spectators settle on the old defensive earthworks in comfort as the battle unfolds below. Costumes and weapons are rigorously authentic, though a modern sound system is deployed to help the audience follow the action. The commentators are seasoned professionals, describing who's doing what and including dramatic readings to emphasise the pathos of it all. They even throw the action down to a roving reporter on the field, who does live interviews with commanders of various units.

There's no ammunition and everyone practices long and hard to avoid injury. But there's plenty of noise, smoke and clanging swords. The clash of the pikemen looks remarkably like a rugby scrum, in costume with poles. It's a glorious day out.

As is typical with these things, there was an encampment where you could wander and talk to the re-enactors about life in the 17th century. While it's not how I'd want to spend the majority of my weekends, I appreciate the craftspeople who turn up at these things to demonstrate wicker work, carpentry, needlework and pottery.

The day also gave me an excuse to have my first poke around the site of Basing House, which I drive by regularly but had never explored. As was his usual practice when Royalist homes refused to surrender, Cromwell made an example of the place by raising it to the ground. The villagers were then encouraged to take bricks for their own use, which explains why the centre of Old Basing is so charming. Thus there's not a great deal to see of the old house, though the Borough of Basingstoke and Deane has done a fine job of putting informative, family-friendly boards throughout to interpret the site. The most impressive thing left standing is the tithe barn which, it turns out, is the largest Tudor barn in the south of England. Yet another thing to recommend my neighbourhood.

Once through the pretty gate, there's a little building housing a model of Basing House at the height of its glory ... in Lego. Not only fun, but absolutely essential to get a sense of what occupied the grassy mounds you're then off to explore. There was a massive round keep with a variety of buildings inside (now you see a decent range of Tudor brick walls and foundations) and a neighbouring rectangular site where the family built an enormous extension when the first house wasn't big enough. Considering that royal visits could come with an entourage of more than 1000, this wasn't surprising.

Elsewhere in the grounds, there's an impressive knot garden in the shape of the coat of arms of the marquesses of Winchester, and a tiny museum where a collection of bits and pieces unearthed from the site gives you a sense of how rich the interiors must have been. Without the re-enactors, it would be a quiet place, good for a ramble on a sunny day. You're welcome to bring in dogs and picnics, and there's plenty of lawns to relax upon.

The views from the top of the old keep are lovely; rolling countryside interrupted only by Basingstoke's modern skyline. Standing amidst the ruins and the musket fire of the 17th century, looking toward the glass towers of the 21st ... just another Sunday in England.

Exploring Blenheim and Stratfield Saye: From the same start, radically different results

Blenheim Palace and Stratfield Saye are unique amongst all the stately homes of England, thanks to their peculiar origins. Both were gifts from a grateful government to generals-made-dukes who had won epoch-defining battles against the French. Both were intended to trumpet the glory of national supremacy in their art and architecture. Both are "paid" for with annual rent flags, given to the reigning monarch by the current dukes and hanging in places of honour at Windsor Castle. And both have become such potent monuments to their founding figures that they have a shrine-like quality.

Yet it's hard to imagine two houses more different from each other. Blenheim: vast and imposing, backdrop to scores of films and entertainment venue for more than 700,000 visitors a year. Stratfield Saye: homely and comfortable, only open a few weeks a year and little known beyond locals and people with a specialist interest.

Though familiar with ... and a past multiple visitor to ... both, I recently had the rare treat of touring them both within a week. The experience cries out for a compare and contrast exercise.

Blenheim is a baroque tour de force. Its no surprise that its architect, Vanbrugh, started out in stage set design. The massive scale, Versailles-like projecting wings and military encrustations on the rooftops all trumpet "an important person lives here!" That continues inside, where towering marble halls dwarf the individual. All the Louis XIV furniture makes the place look more like a museum than a house, while the painted walls of the dining room ... where the great and good stare down upon you from lofty balconies ... continue the theme of putting you in your place. I confess it's my least favourite of the major English country house interiors because it's so lacking in warmth and humanity.

You would need a towering ego to be comfortable living here; something clearly possessed by Sarah, the first Duchess. Records show that she was obviously the driving force behind the construction, pushing on for decades after her husband's death to make sure nobody forgot that he'd saved England, Western civilisation and the world.

The architecture and interiors at Stratfield Saye are equally marked by their founder, but the result is entirely different. This is a moderately-sized Regency house, as aristocratic seats go, with cozy interiors and scores of homey touches. It's easy to imagine moving right in. The original intent had been to build another palace on a Blenheim-like scale. (You can see drawings in the hall on the way to the dining room; they're actually rather hideous.) But Arthur Wellesley wasn't that fussed about making a big statement, and his retiring, estranged wife was never going to follow in Sarah Churchill's footsteps. The duke was instead far more concerned about comfort and convenience. He personally designed a central heating system, putting Stratfield Saye ahead of many other stately homes by more than a century. He designed en-suite toilets into his guest rooms, cleverly concealed in beautifully-crafted corner wardrobes. The customised lamps throughout ran brighter and cleaner than contemporary alternatives, fuelled by rapeseed oil grown on the estate. In his library, you can see the reading chair he designed to allow a variety of comfortable positions, with moveable arms to hold book, candle and drink. The practicality continues today: the family uses the first Duke's dispatch boxes as coffee tables. The pile of remote controls and current magazines on one leaves you in no doubt this is still very much a family home.

You find out all of these details because you're taken on a guided tour by family retainers. On a wet Easter Saturday, the three in my group were the only visitors at the time and thus enjoyed an entirely personalised wander and got to ask loads of questions. This kind of intimacy, I suspect, is because the Wellesleys don't need the tourist money the way the Spencer-Churchills do. The first duke of Wellington's practicality created a manageable, well-run estate that's now able to fund itself in a way Blenheim simply can't. Thus the conversion of the Oxfordshire palace into a tourist attraction of Disney-esque proportions. Someone has to pay to heat that mausoleum and maintain all that art.

That's not to say that Stratfield Saye doesn't house equally impressive treasures. The first duke might have been humble and practical, but he enjoyed a bit of triumphalism. The long gallery here has the best collection of French Boulle furniture in England outside of the Wallace Collection. China, fine art, furniture and sculpture all attract the eyes, though the best stuff is up at Apsley House (more on that here) and the most interesting stories come with the family portraits. At Blenheim, you'll see similar stuff on a much grander scale, but it's the famous tapestries that are unique.

It's obvious by now that as a house, and for its founding personality, I favour Stratfield Saye. But I'll give Blenheim a clear victory on the grounds. The Wellesleys' place sits in pretty but unexceptional Hampshire farmland, not much "improved" except for some trickery on the river Loddon to create the illusion of a lake, and some pleasant gardens. At Blenheim, the push for grandeur that made their house a cold mausoleum made their grounds one of the greatest landscapes in England. This is thanks to the genius of Capability Brown, the greatest gardener of the 18th century and perhaps of all time.

Brown swept away the formality of French and Dutch gardens to create visions of pastoral paradise. Hills undulate, water caresses, herds or sheep and deer add movement, carefully-chosen trees combine to clothe the landscape in different shapes and colours. Grand architectural statements punctuate the horizon at the end of long vistas. Ironically, it's all just as artificial as the parterres, espaliers and clipped box it replaced ... but it doesn't look it. Wandering through the park at Blenheim on a mild, sunny day is a soul-soothing preview of what heaven must surely look like.

Half an hour outside Oxford, Blenheim is open most of the year, and offers a full day out with a variety of attractions. There's a variety of admission prices; many people skip the house and pay the lesser fee to enjoy the grounds. It's also the venue for a regular stream of events. Stratfield Saye is tucked in between Basingstoke and Reading, open at Easter and for about a month every summer; check their web site for details. There's not much to do beyond the house tour, so you'll only need a couple of hours. The estate farm shop nearby, however, is well worth a visit and is open year round.

Sorority day out celebrates women, re-kindles appreciation for forgotten connections

From 1982 to 1986, my sorority was one of the most important things in my life. Chi Omega was where I lived, who my best friends were, and the identity that made me more than just another Northwestern student. Then I graduated ... and its influence disappeared as quickly as it had come.

My dearest university friends remained my "sisters". We regularly re-united in Chicago. But as time passed it was the bonds of our shared history, more than a couple of greek letters, that held us together. I ventured to a Chi O event once while living in Texas, where a group of terrifyingly beautiful, exquisitely-coiffed Stepford Wives with languorous Southern drawls made me suspect that my bond with my "sisters" had more to to with Northwestern than our sorority. I hadn't thought about the organisation for years. Then I got an invitation to Chi Omega's first-ever European annual gathering at Blenheim Palace. There'd be a private tour, a lecture, and a chance to meet up with a marquess. Why not, I thought, give it another try?

I'm so glad I did. It was a life-affirming day to celebrate female achievement, and it turns out that Blenheim is the perfect English venue in which to do so.

I knew that the dukes of Marlborough held one of the few hereditary peerages able to pass down the female line if there's no male heir. I appreciated that this, and the monumental palace the dukes call home, was heavily due to the dynamic Sarah, the first Duchess. I'd always loved the story of Consuelo Vanderbilt, the 9th Duchess whose American fortune saved the place ... and set a pattern for American heiresses bringing new blood and financial salvation to some of Britain's oldest families. But a spellbinding lecture from one of Blenheim's staff historians showed that this was just the tip of a formidable female iceberg.

The first duke wouldn't have gotten his foot on the career ladder if it hadn't been for his sister Arabella. Eldest child of impoverished nobles, she knew that becoming a rich-man's mistress was a solid route to money and connections. Deciding to go big or go home, she snagged the Duke of York (who was also heir to Charles II's throne). John and Sarah's daughter Henrietta ... who became duchess in her own right ... shocked society by leaving her well-meaning husband for the writer William Congreve, and further scandalised the world by insisting on a lavish memorial for him in Westminster Abbey when he died. A previous Lady Diana Spencer (the Spencers of Althorp and Spencer-Churchill's of Blenheim are two branches of the same family) dealt with a horrible marriage and financial difficulties by becoming a proficient portraitist who deserves to be better known.

The seventh Duchess ran a social welfare network across the family estates (most of Oxfordshire) that would put many modern health and social services departments to shame. Finally there was the tragic story of early plastic surgery gone wrong in Consuelo's successor. Duchess Gladys wanted to perfect her already-legendary beauty by smoothing out a bump in her nose. She had some wax injected there to plump things up. The result was perfection, until one particularly hot summer when the wax melted, leaving brown rivulets and lumps permanently scaring her face. The trauma drove the poor girl mad.  (Botox fans, take note.)

Later in the day, we moved on to our very own Chi Omega connection to the English aristocracy. From 1930 to 1958, the sorority was the engine behind a National Achievement Award for women, designed to redress the balance of male-dominated schemes like the Pulitzers and the Nobels. Stella Isaacs, the first Marchioness of Reading, was one of just two non-Americans to be given the honour. In a remarkable life that included holding traditionally male jobs, travelling extensively, taking diplomatic posts and making famous friends like Eleanor Roosevelt, her biggest lasting contribution was the establishment of the British organisation now known as the Royal Voluntary Service. (You can read more about her here; she really deserves to be better known.)

The current (fourth) marquess of Reading is her step-grandson. It sounds a distant and tenuous connection, but because she was a second wife much younger than her husband, Lord Reading not only remembers her ... but served in the house of Lords with her very early in his own career. He regaled us with family memories and inspired us with stories of her sense of political leadership as service. A philosophy, be bemoaned, that's too rare in the current world. Few could disagree.

After a day at the palace we retired to the home of one of the sisters who lived nearby, taking time to

get to know each other. It was a diverse group. There were 20-somethings up to a woman celebrating 50 years since she'd initiated. Mostly American expats, but one Brit who'd gone to Missouri's William Woods College on a golf scholarship. We were articulate, successful and represented a wide range of professions from lawyers to military officers to a Church of England priest. I suspect that, if the founders of that award could have dropped in, they'd be content that their efforts had triggered the sort of female parity of achievement they were aiming for.

It's ironic. At 17, the main reason I joined a sorority was for the social life. Which, at 17, actually meant: to meet boys. Picking the connection back up more than 30 years later, I realise it's really about meeting, encouraging and celebrating successful women. As a university student, I suppose I took that for granted. These days, after a career in male-dominated industries, looking up to male-dominated boards, I'm far more aware of just how important that is.

Coming in my next entry, more on Blenheim Palace itself, and its alter ego Stratfield Saye.