Fogg’s Horn: Tea at the Princess

Fogg’s Horn

The Miscreant Meanderings Of Our Man Markus

Tea at the Princess

You get to the point where you’ve had quite enough of traveling to places where they want to feed you bugs or set you up with the chief’s daughter. Even an intrepid sort like myself longs for a little civilization now and then, so I asked myself: where is the most civilized place on the planet? Civilized, that is, without bus exhaust and dollar stores.

So I headed to Bermuda. Bermuda, I figured, would be like a cross between Martha’s Vineyard and the Cotswolds.

Boy, was I surprised. After a lifetime of “what I figured” and “what it was” winding up poles apart, and expecting no better, I discovered that Bermuda was . . . a cross between Martha’s Vineyard and the Cotswolds.

On the Vineyard account was the gentle rolling countryside, with the sea not far away, as on a New England saltwater farm. Every square inch was manicured, lovingly tended, matted and framed like a painting of a place too good to be true. The Cotswolds element was provided by a little jewel of a Gothic church, and by narrow byways with names like Pigeon Berry Lane. As it turned out, I wasn’t the first to get this feeling about the place. I saw later that two of the streets were named Nantucket Lane (close enough) and Cotswold Lane.

OK, that’s a lot of lanes. A bit twee, you say. Go soak your head. Sometimes twee is balm for the soul. Especially if the soul has been fed too many bugs, and the chief’s daughter was a fright.

There’s another kind of balm Bermuda offers, one that’s becoming rarer as the world starts to act like its phone just died in the middle of an IMPORTANT TWEET, and to look more and more like an unmade bed. I’m talking about formality, and the oddly surprising calm that it can produce. Formality means predictability, and a certain lulling sensation. And Bermuda is a formal place.

Bermuda’s formality comes across most visibly in dress. A sixth-generation local told me that this derives from the long British military presence in the islands, back in the imperial heyday when Bermuda was called “the Gibraltar of the West.” What did British officers wear in warm climates back then? Why, the same thing Alec Guinness wore in “The Bridge on the River Kwai” — shorts! And what was that gent wearing, briefcase in hand, walking along Front Street in downtown Hamilton? A blue blazer,

starched white shirt, repp silk tie . . . and Bermuda shorts.

“The shorts are a throwback to the military,” my gen-six local told me. “They got their start as a local trademark when tailors here began refining officers’ baggy khaki shorts for civilian wear.” They’re now ubiquitous as Bermudian business attire, creased, hemmed just at the right spot on the knee, and totally at home with jacket and tie.

But there had to be more to it than shorts. I thought about where I might find the quintessence of Bermudian formality and local tradition, and concluded that the place to look was afternoon tea at the venerable Hamilton Princess, a big pink cake of a hotel.

I was staying elsewhere, and thought it might be appropriate to call the Princess first, to see if non-guests were welcome. “Are you serving tea at four?” I asked the Englishaccented woman who answered the telephone.

“Yes,” she answered.

“Is it all right to come to tea if one isn’t registered at the hotel?”

“Are you registered at the hotel?”

“No. That’s why I’m asking.”

“I’ll switch you to dining services.”

“Hello?” (Another Englishwoman’s voice.)

“Hello, I’m wondering if I can come to tea if I’m not registered at the hotel.”

“What is your name, sir?” I gave her my name and spelling. At this point, I was tempted to add “Viscount.”

“I don’t have you listed as a guest.”

“I know that. I’m calling to ask if it’s all right to come to tea if I’m not a guest.”

“No, sir.”

Now we were deep in Monty Python territory, and I had the John Cleese part. Clearly, there was nothing to do but get dressed in the best clothes I’d packed (alas, no Bermuda shorts, and I wouldn’t have felt comfortable showing up in the cargo variety with 46 pockets), head into Hamilton on my rented motor scooter, and crash tea at the Princess. But when I sauntered into the hotel with my best ersatz viscount air, all I found was a small room off the lobby where a dozen people in tennis outfits stood around a samovar and a tray of marble pound cake slices. I poured a cup, drank it, and was gone in five minutes. Crashing tea at the Princess had been about as difficult, and as exciting, as stopping at a diner for lunch.

It took a bit of the polish off my formal, civilized vision. I’d have felt better, truth to tell, if they had thrown me out.

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Wind Turbines in the North Sea Photo by Tony Tedeschi

Croton Aqueduct, New York Photo by Chris Taylor