Hillsborough Castle, County Down, September 10, 2025 – Amid the drizzling mists of an unseasonably cool autumn afternoon, the Princess Royal, Anne, arrived at Hillsborough Castle like a steadfast beacon of royal resilience, her presence a balm for the gathered souls who have quietly woven the fabric of Northern Irish society. The official royal residence in County Down, with its Georgian elegance and sprawling gardens that whisper of centuries past, played host to a garden party that transcended mere formality – it was a celebration of unsung valor, a tapestry of tales from the frontlines of community service and wartime sacrifice. At the heart of the day stood 106-year-old Norman Irwin, the last living founding member of the Corps of Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers (REME), to whom Anne personally presented the British Empire Medal (BEM) in a moment that bridged generations and evoked the unyielding spirit of the Greatest Generation.
The visit marked Anne’s first official engagement in Northern Ireland since her recovery from a riding accident earlier in the year, a testament to her indomitable work ethic that has seen her clock more overseas trips than any other royal in modern history. At 75, the Princess Royal remains the epitome of no-nonsense royalty – her wardrobe choices as pragmatic as her approach to duty: a tailored navy coat cinched at the waist, paired with a taupe feathered hat that nodded subtly to the estate’s avian residents, and sturdy brogues that navigated the damp lawns with ease. Escorted by a small entourage including her lady-in-waiting and a contingent from the Northern Ireland Office, Anne’s motorcade swept through the castle’s wrought-iron gates just after noon, the Union Jack fluttering atop the turrets in crisp salute.
Hillsborough Castle, perched on the edge of the Mourne Mountains like a sentinel from another era, has long served as the monarch’s pied-à-terre in the province – a place where history’s echoes mingle with the present’s hopes. Built in 1798 as a Georgian mansion for the Hill family, it became the official residence in 1922, surviving the Troubles’ shadows to emerge as a venue for peace accords and now, joyous gatherings like this. The gardens, meticulously manicured with herbaceous borders bursting in late-summer pinks and golds – salvias, rudbeckias, and the hardy Michaelmas daisies defying the rain – set the stage for an event that drew over 1,000 guests. These were not the glitterati of Belfast’s salons, but the quiet architects of change: nurses who manned mobile clinics during the pandemic, teachers bridging sectarian divides in inner-city schools, farmers who transformed barren fields into community allotments, and volunteers who knit blankets for the homeless through Ulster’s biting winters.
The garden party, an annual fixture since the castle’s handover to public stewardship in 2014, is more than a pat on the back; it’s a deliberate affirmation of the monarchy’s role in a post-conflict society. Organized by the Northern Ireland Office in collaboration with the royal household, it spotlights recipients of honors from the King’s Birthday Honours List – a roll call of resilience that included 300 invitees this year alone. As Anne alighted from her car, a guard of honor from the Irish Guards snapped to attention, their scarlet tunics a vivid slash against the overcast sky. Bagpipes wailed a stirring rendition of “The Flower of Scotland” – a nod to Anne’s own Scottish roots via her mother, the late Queen – before giving way to the softer lilt of a harpist plucking airs from the Glens of Antrim.
Before the outdoor revelry, Anne’s itinerary took her indoors to the castle’s opulent Red Room, a chamber heavy with Regency splendor: crimson damask walls, a chandelier dripping Waterford crystals like frozen rain, and portraits of stern-faced viceroys gazing down from gilt frames. It was here, in this cocoon of crimson and gold, that the day’s emotional core unfolded. Seated in a high-backed armchair, his posture ramrod straight despite the years, was Norman Irwin – Coleraine’s living legend, sharp as a tack at 106, his eyes twinkling with the mischief of a man who has outlived two world wars and danced through decades of peace.
Born in 1918 in the linen-mill heart of County Londonderry, Irwin’s life reads like a chronicle of quiet heroism. The son of a weaver, he apprenticed in a local factory, his hands callused from threading shuttles before fate – and the drumbeat of impending conflict – called him elsewhere. In 1939, as Neville Chamberlain’s “peace for our time” crumbled into the Blitz’s roar, Irwin enlisted in the Coleraine Battery of the Royal Artillery, trading the hum of machinery for the thunder of guns. Stationed in Egypt’s sun-blasted sands, he helped fortify the Suez Canal against Rommel’s Afrika Korps, his engineering acumen turning scrap into salvation – wiring radios under fire, jury-rigging engines in the desert’s choking dust. It was there, amid the pyramids’ ancient shadows, that he witnessed the REME’s birth in 1942, a corps forged to keep the British Army’s mechanical might humming. Transferred to its ranks, Irwin became one of its founding cadre, a pioneer whose ingenuity ensured tanks rolled and planes soared when surrender seemed the only shadow.
Demobbed in 1945, Irwin returned to Coleraine not as a conqueror, but as a community pillar. He married his sweetheart, raised a family – including son David, now a silver-haired retiree himself – and dove into voluntary service with the fervor of his foxhole days. For over 40 years, he volunteered at the local senior citizens’ club, a cross-community haven where Protestants and Catholics swapped yarns over tea, mending the rifts of the Troubles one shared laugh at a time. He organized bingo nights that doubled as therapy sessions, led gardening groups that bloomed into metaphors for reconciliation, and even penned memoirs that schools now use to teach the young about war’s folly and peace’s price. At 106, wheelchair-bound but unbowed, Irwin’s BEM – gazetted in the King’s list for “services to the community in Coleraine” – made him the oldest recipient in Northern Irish history, a record that felt less like a statistic and more like destiny’s nod.
As Anne entered the Red Room, the air thickened with anticipation. Flanked by her private secretary and a notary bearing the medal in a velvet case, she approached Irwin with the directness that has endeared her to generations – no curtsies, no fluff. His family encircled him like a living honor guard: David, steady and beaming; daughter-in-law Peggy, dabbing her eyes with a lace hanky; grandson Chris, a burly engineer who inherited Norman’s mechanical bent; and Chris’s wife Chloe, clutching a bouquet of heather from the Bann’s banks. Irwin rose unassisted – a feat that drew gasps – his tweed jacket pinned with faded campaign ribbons, his voice a gravelly brogue honed by decades of Ulster winters.
“Mr. Irwin,” Anne began, her tone warm yet commanding, pinning the silver medal to his lapel with practiced precision, “it is my profound honor to present you with the British Empire Medal. Thank you for telling your story, for helping other people, and for being the founding member of REME – a corps that turned the tide when it mattered most.” Irwin, his hand trembling only slightly as he clasped hers, replied with a grin that crinkled his face like well-worn leather: “Your Royal Highness, if I’d known royalty was this kind, I’d have fixed your car meself back in ’42.” The room erupted in laughter, Anne’s own chuckle a rare, throaty bark that eased the room’s gravity. She lingered, inquiring after his wartime recipes for desert Spam – “tinned triumph,” he quipped – and his club’s latest fundraiser, a bake sale that raised £5,000 for local hospices.
The presentation’s intimacy was deliberate; Irwin’s frailty precluded the trek to Buckingham Palace for the standard investiture, so the palace came to him – a gesture that spoke volumes about Anne’s pragmatic empathy. As the family posed for photographs – Irwin’s medal catching the light like a captured star – whispers rippled through the corridor: aides from the Northern Ireland Office tearing up, a photographer steadying his lens against misty eyes. “He’s the last of the last,” David’s voice cracked later, “and she made him feel like the first.”
From the Red Room’s hush, Anne transitioned to the gardens, where the party was in full swing despite the heavens’ reluctance. Marquees billowed like sails on the lawn, laden with silver salvers of cucumber sandwiches, Victoria sponges oozing jam, and flutes of elderflower fizz chilled in ice sculptures carved as Celtic knots. A string quartet from the Ulster Orchestra – violins humming airs from “Danny Boy” to trad fiddles – provided the soundtrack, while children from local integrated schools scampered about with face paint and Union Jacks, oblivious to the rain’s patter. Anne, umbrella in hand, toured the grounds first, planting a copper beech sapling in the arboretum – a “tree of thanks,” as she dubbed it, its roots destined to entwine with those planted by Elizabeth II in 1953.
Then came the mingling, Anne’s forte: a whirlwind of handshakes and heartfelt exchanges that left guests glowing. She paused with Eileen O’Hara, a 62-year-old Belfast nurse who cycled 500 miles during lockdown to deliver PPE, dubbing her “the wheels of mercy.” To Patrick McKee, a Derry farmer whose organic co-op employs ex-offenders, she quipped, “Turning swords to plowshares – properly this time.” And with the McFadden sisters from Armagh, who run a literacy program for Traveller children, Anne shared a story of her own schooldays, admitting, “I was hopeless at spelling – thank heavens for patient teachers.” The rain held off just long enough for toasts under the marquees, glasses raised to “service without spotlight,” before a light shower sent guests scurrying with good-natured giggles.
Yet the day’s undercurrents ran deeper, laced with Northern Ireland’s complex tapestry. Anne’s visit came amid renewed talks on a Northern Ireland Protocol tweak, with Westminster eyeing economic bridges over post-Brexit divides. Her presence – unflashy, unflappable – reaffirmed the monarchy’s role as a unifying thread, especially poignant in a province where republican sentiments simmer. Earlier that morning, she’d apologized for canceling two charity stops in Holywood and south Belfast due to a scheduling snag, phoning organizers personally: “Duty calls elsewhere, but my heart’s with you – we’ll reschedule with bells on.” Such candor, rare in royal circles, only amplified her authenticity.
As the afternoon waned, with the sun piercing the clouds in a hesitant halo, Anne bid farewell from the castle’s steps, waving to a crowd that lingered like old friends. For Irwin, the medal nestled in his pocket like a talisman, he reflected to reporters: “Aye, it’s grand, but the real honor’s in the doing – and having a princess say thanks.” His family whisked him home to Coleraine, where the Bann River’s gentle flow would cradle another chapter in a life improbably long and luminously lived.
In the grand ledger of royal engagements, this Hillsborough afternoon stands as a jewel: a reminder that crowns endure not through ceremony alone, but through connections forged in red rooms and rain-kissed gardens. Anne, the Princess Royal, departed not as a figurehead, but as a fellow traveler – honoring the Normans of the world, whose quiet gears keep societies turning. In a fractured age, such gestures are the true empire’s medals: silver threads of gratitude, binding past to future.
