I’ve always wanted to be more like Elizabeth II. Not the part where she shook hands with strangers and enabled a Lothario son. I mostly envied her hardiness—and jewelry. I’ve watched enough of The Crown to know the patron saint of the stiff upper lip wasn’t bereft of emotion. She was simply incapable of turning into a puddle.
Balmoral Castle, her estate west of Aberdeen, was her version of Canyon Ranch, although she would never have described it as a “retreat” or, heaven forbid, “detox.” All it took to straighten out Elizabeth’s head was slipping on her wellies (hers were bespoke Hunters), exercising the corgis, and riding the Highland ponies. Tromping from glen to glen, bouffant shielded by a silk scarf, she was energized by the horizontal rain and pebbly piles of dung that are never far from one’s feet in a country where sheep outnumber people. After nature administered its cure, she would return to Windsor Castle, primed for the drama and drudgery.
