Starbucks? No thanks. The Queen and I shall stick with our cuppas

IT is far less the beverage itself than the ritual surrounding it. For myself, it always begins with filling the kettle with fresh-drawn water, setting it on the boiling plate of the Aga with a firm twist (for full contact), and dropping a Twinings Earl Grey teabag into one of my vast, man-sized Sports Direct mugs, of which I have seven.

The kettle whistles exuberantly within two minutes, and at full rolling boil the mug is filled. The tea is left to infuse for precisely two more minutes, the bag extricated, and then I add a splash of milk, which must be semi-skimmed and fridge-cold.

No sugar or sweetener ever defiles it. And, unless the rain is positively horizontal, I take it outside, sip at first delicately and, as the brew cools, swallow more exuberantly, generally assess the air and compose my thoughts. Some 25 minutes later, this typical morning, I am finally capable of speech and, after my second mug, even reasoned argument and the fashioning of simple tools.

Tea, whatever your individual rites and however your taste runs – between delicate lapsang souchong and sensible shoes Ty-Phoo – is an acutely personal business.

The Queen begins her day, wherever she is, with Earl Grey tea and Marie biscuits. For afternoon tea, on the dot of five – a rite so sacrosanct no duty or appointment is ever allowed to come in its way – she enjoys a special afternoon Twinings blend with thinly-cut brown bread and butter, Cooper’s jam, honey, potted meats and shrimps, and two stands of stylish cakes.

Sandwiches are cut octagonally, and the palace kitchen also furnishes fluffy scones – which the Queen never eats, instead she feeds these to her corgis. ‘With all the implements of the afternoon ritual set in place,’ pants royal observer Ingrid Seward, ‘the Queen herself warms the teapot – considered an absolute necessity to produce a really good cuppa.

‘When she decides the pot is nicely warmed, she pours the water she used for the job into a small basin that holds the tea strainer. A hovering page then empties this. She spoons the tea into the pot with a silver spoon and adds boiling water from her silver kettle. It is unlikely the Queen has ever seen a teabag and she would probably not know what to do with one if she did...’

TONY Benn enjoyed his from the mother of all mugs – it held a full pint (James Callaghan once sent a Government driver round to bring it to No 10, the better to soothe his turbulent priest through some sticky negotiation).

My mother, like many of her island generation, boils hers on the stove till the reek fills the kitchen; but, when entertaining, she goes the full Edwardian hog: dinky Royal Albert cups and saucers tinkly on the tray, stylish Sixties stainless steel pot and its matching hot water jug, the sliced rich fruit cake and upmarket dainties...

And even today, in many small Scottish towns, hotels offer not dinner for your evening meal but ‘high tea’ – which broadly means that the main course (usually a grill) will not come with potatoes, and that you will enjoy a selection of baking. And, of course, a pot of tea.

It is all extraordinarily British. The Americans, in my experience, cannot make a decent cuppa at gunpoint. Once, in Seattle, the charming waiter brought me a cup and saucer with a lonely dry teabag and a pot of quite hot water.

The French gulp it at breakfast from hand-held bowls, while the Japanese have their own overwrought tea ceremony, as involved and mannered as the installation of a Pope. We simply enjoy it, at any time of day – the afternoon refresher; the soothing comfort after a loud night out – and knock back a mighty 165million cups of the stuff every day.

And, after a dangerous wobble – since coffee became somewhat fashionable in the mid-Nineties – tea has once more stretched its lead over the devil’s brew.

But dark and terrible innovation may be on the horizon. ‘The humble cuppa is set to undergo a radical transformation over the next decade,’ gasps a report this week, ‘and we will soon be taking our tea via jelly, tablets... and even spray, say experts…’

Tetley, in what one trusts is less serious sociological prediction than a publicity stunt, has teamed up with futurologists to predict how we might be enjoying our brew a decade hence.

‘Sensor-powered kitchen tea makers will deliver customised blends based on health information from “wearable tech”,’ they ooze, ‘ensuring, for instance, that extra caffeine and vitamin B6 is added if the consumer is feeling tired.

‘By 2026, hardened tea drinkers will have become “domestic blenders”, using smart tools and taking advantage of rising temperatures to grow tea plants at home then blend and brew the leaves themselves.’

By 2026, My Earl Grey could be delivered in the form of jelly, tablet, spray, sorbets or even syrups. Then we could see the emergence of ‘remedy teas’ enriched with medicines from painkillers to antibiotics, and even blends to help everything from a hangover to hair loss.

This Future of Tea report, insists Tetley’s Laurent Sagarra: ‘Provides a strong picture of consumer attitudes to health in 2026 and an entire spectrum of product concepts, formats and technologies to explore. There are many possibilities, but one thing is for sure, a quality brew will always be a timeless pleasure.’

BUT this tongue-incheek study rather misses the point, does it not? For all of us, tea is not a hot drink: it is a pause. Whether with the elegance of Sandringham at five, or whipping up a mug of builders’ for elevenses, the mere act of making tea is a moment for yourself; a tender semi-colon on the breathless page of your day; a ritual that restores serenity and perspective.

Contrast this with high-end designer coffee. The new island museum in Stornoway opened last month not just with bits of Viking sword and a few real live Lewis chessmen, but with a great innovation – an attached Starbucks.

I have only braved it twice. The queue of achingly on-trend island teens curls to the door as wildeyed young staff wrestle with terrifying machinery and amidst whooshing steam, shrieking names occasionally for the faithful at last to collect their chosen beverage (which comes in three sizes: huge, enormous, and blooming ridiculous).

On the single till, a brave lad with eyes like burnt-out rock cakes tries desperately to process your order: a café Americano grande; a café mocha venti and something called a yankees crap po frap puci no, if memory serves, which comes with whipped cream and marshmallows and crushed ice under a little Perspex dome and is but Liberace in a bucket.

After this unnerving dose of Noo Yoik, one needs a mug of tea to recover. A culture shock perhaps comparable to those Edinburgh ladies in sixteen-oat cake who, after Catherine of Braganza – consort to Charles II – had introduced tea to Britain, bravely brewed some up. Then poured it all away and politely ate the leaves.

Morning for me – and millions – can never be a cup of deep black joe, or even Nescafé; but that first and mighty mug of plain, refreshing, restorative good old tea... or even the sweet anticipation of it.

‘Age is no guarantee of efficiency,’ Skyfall’s new, brooding and very young Q tells James Bond, who replies: ‘And youth is no guarantee of innovation.’

‘Well,’ pouts Ben Whishaw’s Q, ‘I’ll hazard I can do more damage on my laptop sitting in my pyjamas before my first cup of Earl Grey than you can do in a year in the field...’