A FRIEND of mine messaged me from Guatemala not long ago, having just arrived in Central America for the start of a random three-month ramble around the eastern coastline. Yet, his WhatsApp message didn’t contain pictures of Aztec ruins or sun-kissed beaches. Attached was a photo of a ruined pile of Yorkshire Tea bags, waterlogged and rendered beyond brewing by a leaking hotel ceiling that destroyed the supply he’d brought all the way from London. ‘Feel like coming home already,’ he moaned. He was joking—but only just. Such is the Englishman’s devotion to tea; a product that, like chicken korma, pizza and lukewarm Chardonnay, has almost nothing to do with the nation that has commandeered it as its own true love.
Tea is the great leveller. The vessel you drink it from, the time of day and environment in which you consume it and the posture you assume when imbibing it may vary. However, it’s still the greatest solution to the emotionally constipated, repressed English character we have: our words of comfort or our ability to discuss the mood and health of loved ones may struggle to eclipse the verbal dexterity of a Clinton’s greeting card—but we all know how to offer, make and present a cup of tea to the sad, the grieving, the tired and the hungover.
It’s a process that often starts in childhood. It certainly did so for food and drink consultant Jane Milton: ‘I grew up in Glasgow in the 1970s and, for as long as I can remember, tea has been at the heart
