Order of the Garter

When you hear the phrase “Order of the Garter,” it might sound like something found in a particularly risqué 18th-century dressing room. But no—this is the top-tier, velvet-and-feathers kind of honour that only the most select few in Britain (and sometimes a very lucky foreign royal) ever get to enjoy. The Order of the Garter is the oldest and most prestigious chivalric order in the country, and if you’re thinking it has something to do with knights, dragons, and slightly damp ceremonies involving weird hats, you’re absolutely on track.

Founded in 1348 by King Edward III, the Order has all the delightful pomp and ceremonial baggage you’d expect from a medieval monarch who spent most of his reign trying to prove he was the real King of France. Legend has it that it all started when a lady (possibly Joan of Kent, possibly someone else depending on who was gossiping that week) dropped her garter at a ball, and Edward gallantly picked it up and declared, “Honi soit qui mal y pense” — “Shame on him who thinks evil of it.” Naturally, this turned into a full-blown chivalric code with horses, pageantry, and an order that still survives today. As you do.

Every year, on a Monday in June, Windsor Castle turns into Hogwarts for grown-ups. Garter Day is when the monarch and the Knights and Ladies of the Order don their medieval finery and strut around St George’s Chapel like it’s 1399 and they’ve just returned from a noble quest involving a moat, a swan, and an overly ambitious banquet.

The number of members is limited, strictly. There are 24 living non-royal Companions, plus the Sovereign and the Prince of Wales. Royals and foreign monarchs can be “extra” companions, and no, this doesn’t mean they get to sit at the cool kids’ table at lunch. It means they’re honorary, but they still get the hat and cloak, which is what truly matters.

Let’s talk wardrobe. The regalia of the Order is a high-fashion fever dream. Members wear a dark blue velvet mantle lined with white satin, a crimson velvet hat with a stunning white ostrich plume, and a collar made of 26 golden knots alternating with enamelled medallions of St George fighting the dragon. It’s what you’d wear if you wanted to look fabulous while reading aloud from an illuminated manuscript about how great your ancestors were.

The actual garter, yes, that’s real too. It’s dark blue (sometimes black), and it bears the same saucy French motto. Men wear it just below the left knee, women on the upper left arm. One can only imagine the awkward pre-ceremony dressing-room logistics.

St George’s Chapel at Windsor Castle is the spiritual home of the Order. It’s where services take place, banners hang, and plaques bearing the names of members line the choir stalls. You get your own brass plate, which stays long after you’ve ridden off into the afterlife. A kind of VIP eternity pass, really.

If you’re made a Garter knight, you’re in prestigious company. Past members include Winston Churchill, Margaret Thatcher, and the Duke of Wellington. Foreign members? Think Emperor Hirohito, King Harald V of Norway, and even Emperor Akihito. Napoleon was very nearly a member once, but let’s just say things got a bit awkward geopolitically.

The appointments are made by the sovereign and the sovereign alone. No government meddling, no political lobbying. It’s one of the few remaining personal gifts the monarch bestows, which makes it rather charmingly archaic. Like handwritten invitations or duels at dawn.

During the service, there’s a procession involving foot guards, military bands, heralds, officers of arms, and men in tabards that look like they got lost on the way to a Shakespeare festival. The public turns out to watch, because where else can you see people wearing 14th-century cosplay and taking it very, very seriously?

Then there are the stalls. Every Garter knight has a stall in the chapel choir, complete with a personal crest, sword, banner, and brass plate. When they die, their sword and banner are removed, but the brass plate stays. There are hundreds of them, making the place look like an elite medieval sports hall of fame.

It’s not all just hats and heraldry. Members swear loyalty to the Sovereign and are supposed to embody chivalric virtues like courage, service, and honesty. Which is quaint when you think about some of the historical rogues who managed to land the gig.

Henry VIII, for instance, was a fan. Possibly because he got to strut around in feathers and gold, and nobody said a word about his fifth helping of roast swan.

Women weren’t admitted as full Companions until 1987. Before that, they could be “Ladies of the Garter,” which sounds a bit like a Regency-era novel that doesn’t end well. The Queen Mother was among the first to be inducted under the new rules, proving once and for all that it’s never too late to get into the club.

Ceremonies are full of medieval flourishes. Black Rod, Garter King of Arms, and Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod are all real titles, and no, they are not characters from Monty Python.

The chapel itself? It has seen everything from royal weddings to the funeral of Prince Philip. It’s been the Order’s headquarters since the 15th century and is one of the finest examples of Gothic architecture in England. It also contains the tombs of ten monarchs, which means your big day might include the faint sound of Tudor ghosts applauding politely.

In times of crisis, the Order goes quiet. During World War II, for instance, the annual procession was suspended. But even bombs didn’t end the tradition — it resumed with gusto after the war, as if nothing had happened except a minor inconvenience involving the Luftwaffe.

Every now and then, there’s a bit of drama. In 2008, it was big news when Lady Thatcher’s banner was removed following her death. Not because of the act itself, but because of the sudden flurry of requests to acquire it, like it was the last signed Beatles LP.

The Order of the Garter predates the Tudors, the printing press, and the concept of weekends. It’s managed to survive religious upheaval, world wars, and several decades of ill-advised facial hair. That’s no small feat.

It has inspired countless imitators. The Order of the Thistle (Scotland) and the Order of St Patrick (Ireland) followed its lead, although the latter hasn’t had any new members since the 1930s. Possibly because they realised green velvet and shamrocks weren’t quite as photogenic.

You can’t apply or audition for it. There’s no interview. No HR department. You just wait, behave impeccably for a few decades, and hope the monarch thinks you’re cool enough.

It’s not all fun and feathers. You do actually have to show up. Garter Day is not optional, and you better believe they expect full regalia, no matter how much it weighs or how itchy it gets.

It remains one of the rare honours that transcends politics. A Garter appointment is for life, and it carries no salary, no political obligation, and no secret handshake. Just the right to wear a garter and swan around Windsor like you own the place.

In a world obsessed with likes, shares, and blue ticks, there’s something refreshingly daft and old-fashioned about the Order of the Garter. It reminds us that sometimes prestige comes not from algorithms or hashtags, but from a velvet robe, a brass plate, and a motto in medieval French about not being a creep.