I might as well have been Oscar Wilde’s governess Miss Laetitia Prism with my charge, Cecily Cardew, when we alighted from our carriage – a black Ford Kuga – in the forecourt of one of Co Cork’s grand old houses, now a five-star hotel. It was just days after my daughter Saoirse’s nuptials and she was treating this mother of the bride to afternoon tea. Coincidentally, I had experienced a similar indulgence for my birthday in a Co Mayo castle some months earlier, courtesy of a dear friend. Let’s call her Lady Augusta Bracknell, to preserve her anonymity and her penchant for great hats. So, unsurprisingly, the alacrity involved in raising a porcelain china cup with my pinky in a most decorous and erect position is becoming second nature to me. So too has cutting a miniature scone in half with a butter knife with a mother-of-pearl handle after covering the scone in raspberry jam and clotted cream or, indeed, daintily wiping the sides of my mouth with a linen table napkin after some errant flakes from a to-drool-over cream slice.The self-control demanded in this gastronomic experience is aided by the layered structure of the étagère – also known as a tiered cake stand – with the established protocol being that you start at the bottom with the cucumber sandwiches, then move on to the scones and finish with the bite-sized pastries, tarts and macaroons.Of course, these delicate delights are all washed down with a variety of different blends of tea, Darjeeling, Assam, Earl Grey. Indeed, one’s expertise on the origin and provenance of these exotic leaves was essential in Victorian times for ensuring one’s status in society: a bit like how matcha or cortado define those cool hipster vibes these days.While I didn’t go as far as wearing white gloves or an array of feathers in my hair, I embraced a bold pink theme for my recent time-travelling foray into the drawingrooms of yore. [ Flaming underwear, a chair leg and a plum pudding can: the great Olympic torch hoaxOpens in new window ]I must confess too that being of the nosy journalistic persuasion I put Bridgerton’s excellent sleuth, Lady Whistledown, to shame with the eavesdropping acrobatics I achieved while chewing delicately on a caviar sandwich. Particularly of interest was the couple to our left, about whom our dear friend Wilde would have opined pithily: “The proper basis for marriage is mutual misunderstanding.” Oh dear! If they had only left their mobile phones at home they could have stared silently at each other instead of scrolling on their digital devices.Not for the first time, my undercover work was halted when my disapproving daughter whispered: “You do know that you are in danger of falling off your chair because you are leaning so far over and, as usual, your mouth being half-open is a dead giveaway, Mammy.”I have no shame, so the put-down provided the ideal opportunity for educating Saoirse on the origins of afternoon tea. Apparently the popular ritual began when Anna Maria Russell, the seventh Duchess of Bedford, decided to address her midafternoon hunger pangs by summoning her butler to serve tea and sandwiches.Being Queen Victoria’s lady of the bedchamber at the time, it is no surprise that the monarch herself embraced the practice, extending it to garden tea parties. A gathering beloved by our last Uachtarán, Michael D Higgins, who presided over 100 guests from all over the country for afternoon tea in the final days of his presidency. To put this in a historical context, Áras an Uachtaráin was originally the viceregal lodge where Queen Victoria stayed on the four occasions she visited Ireland during her long reign. However, some accounts claim it was in nearby Luttrellstown Castle where she indulged in afternoon tea on two of these occasions. How are we so fascinated by a ritual which was underpinned by the formality and starched manners of an ascendancy society whose values and morals we eschew, even scorn? What are we searching for when we don our glad rags and use our best Ps and Qs so that we can eat cucumber sandwiches and sip tea from bone-china cups? Does the etiquette of white gloves and moustache cups (for the men, obviously) offer a reprieve from the disorder in a chaotic world? Maybe it is simply because of the success of such series as Downton Abbey and Upstairs, Downstairs.After all, there is something attractive, even comforting, about having manners, adhering to etiquette, connecting to the past. As Saoirse and I raised our parasols while having a postprandial walk in the hotel’s walled garden, I swear I could hear that memorable conversation between Gwendolen and Cecily in The Importance of Being Earnest. “You have filled my tea with lumps of sugar, and though I asked most distinctly for bread and butter, you have given me cake. I am known for the gentleness of my disposition, and the extraordinary sweetness of my nature, but I warn you, Miss Cardew, you may go too far.”