Garter Day

Windsor – 15 June 2026

The oldest order of chivalry in the land does not hurry. It has had since 1348 to learn patience.

Edward III founded it. He had been reading about King Arthur and fancied knights of his own, a Round Table with better tailoring.

Nearly seven centuries on, they still walk down the hill at Windsor on the Monday of Royal Ascot week, in blue velvet, in June, sweating under ostrich plumes while the rest of the country reaches for an ice lolly.

And here is what nobody quite says aloud. It is faintly ridiculous.

The great offices of state, processing downhill in feathered hats with a ribbon buckled below the left knee.

The whole thing rests on exactly that – a lady’s garter, dropped at a ball, retrieved by the King, bound round his own leg to shame the sniggering court. Honi soit qui mal y pense. Shame on him who thinks evil of it. The highest honour in the kingdom, founded on a wardrobe mishap and a withering royal stare.

It ought to be datee. Instead it is glorious, which is the point. Britain does this better than anyone and means every solemn syllable. Strip out the flummery and you have a committee and a buffet.

There are never more than twenty-four Companions. The King chooses each himself. No minister whispers, no panel sits. This year he chose three.

Prior to the public procession, Lord Hennessy, Lord O’Donnell, and Lord Burnett were privately invested with the Order's insignia by King Charles III

Peter Hennessy, a newspaperman before that, who made his name explaining how Britain is really governed.

He is the first of his trade ever admitted. The scholar in blue velvet, in the middle of the ceremony he spent a lifetime studying. He looks rather pleased, and well he might.

Then there is Gus O’Donnell, Cabinet Secretary from 2005 to 2011, who ran the machine while three prime ministers came and went. And Ian Burnett, Lord Chief Justice until 2023, the youngest in sixty-five years when he took it.

Finally, the last newby is historian, a civil servant and a judge. No dukes. The King chose service over blood, and the choosing tells you something. The Order stands at twenty-three. One stall waits empty, its brass plate yet to be engraved.

Others in the order include Tony Blair and Andrew Lloyd Webber.

Then the royal knights. William, the thousandth in the register, admitted in 2008. The Princess Royal, a Royal Knight in her own right and no mere Lady – woe betide the herald who muddles it. The Dukes of Edinburgh and Gloucester.

Queen Camilla among them, in a white chiffon evening dress by Fiona Clare beneath her Garter robe, the hat finished with a single white feather.

The robes come from Ede & Ravenscroft, royal robemakers since 1689 and the oldest tailors in the world.

They have made the Garter mantles for three centuries and still come to Windsor to dress the knights in person. Deep blue silk velvet, white taffeta lining, the cross of St George on the shoulder.

The Queen’s was supplied in 1947, when she was made a Lady of the Order as Princess Elizabeth. She has worn the same one ever since.

The Duke of Kent did not walk. He is ninety, and the hill is long, and a man is allowed to be spared it after sixty years of turning up. But he is amonf the throng. Off his feet, not away.

No royal family members is missing today. The family is out in full, plumes and all.

One man is missing is Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor who is no longer of the Order, so he is not in the Chapter, nor the lunch, nor the procession, nor the service - not even among the four thousand four hundred who fill the precincts and the pews.

He resigned the right to be there, and so he is not.

The form never changes.

The Constable and Governor leads. Then the Military Knights of Windsor in scarlet, old soldiers every one. The heralds in their bright tabards, like a freshly shuffled pack of cards. The Companions in pairs, newest first. The royal knights behind.

The Officers of the Order ahead of their Sovereign – Secretary, Dean of Windsor, Garter King of Arms, Chancellor, Black Rod, and the Bishop of Winchester who gives the blessing.

The King last, where the Sovereign always walks. The Yeomen of the Guard close the column in Tudor red, hats like loaves of bread. The Household Division lines the whole way down.

The Princess of Wales is not of the Order, so she watches near the Galilee Porch with the Sophie, The Duchess of Edinburgh – two of the most photographed women in the world, technically spectators. Her coat dress is by Patrick McDowell, cut in London, the cloth woven for her by Stephen Walters & Sons of Suffolk. Her hat is Jane Taylor, trimmed with the same. The earrings are Robinson & Pelham.

The plumes nod. The bands play. Somewhere a child asks why the men are dressed as wizards, and no one has a better answer than “tradition,” which is the only answer there is.

The faces change. The form holds. And the garter, that small ribbon, still outranks them all.