What an idyllic setting. We were amidst the joys of high summer in England, with just enough of a breeze to save us from the heat of the sun, and the further help of a swimming pool. Water without, wine within. We were also surrounded by roses, England’s flower, luxuriating in their beauty and innocence. Experts have applauded my friends’ rose-husbandry. It seemed to this non-expert that they have not merely created a good rose garden; they have triumphed with a great one. Yet other thoughts intruded.

Roses makes one think of Henry VIII. I have recently been reading C.J. Sansom: so much better than Hilary Mantel. His Henry is wholly convincing as a study of corruption and evil. That monster-monarch’s emblems were frequently adorned with roses. It seems to have been his favourite flower: the Tudor rose, beloved by England’s cruellest King, the murderer of Queens and many other victims.

While we were drinking to my friends’ roses, I was drawn on from Henry VIII to the White Rose, that association of Bavarian students in the 1940s who included Sophie Scholl: more innocence, more beauty. A child of an older, gentler Germany, she was determined to bear witness that not all Germans were besotted by evil. But in the short run, she and her friends did not stand a chance. It was inevitable that their white roses should be crushed by the tank tracks, the death camps. Yet one could almost say they died in order that their country might live. The inspiration of their martyrdom was part of the moral rebirth of post-war Germany.

These thoughts, though, were untimely. In such a weekend of wine and roses, it was easy to leave the sins of the world to the Agnus Dei. Apropos roses, we drank a fair amount of cooling rosé, but a magnificent sea trout was complemented by a 2014 Meursault from Pierre Bourée. That year, which was initially underrated, because it was overshadowed by the power of the 2015s, has come into its own. But the victor ludorum, as so often, was Léoville Barton. I refuse to apologise for reverting yet again to that great vineyard’s glories. Those who know it well will not mind. It will merely arouse thirst. Those who have yet to encounter it have a pleasure in store. We enjoyed the 2001: a perfect drop of claret and an ideal accompaniment to delicious carpaccio.

One of our number was still not quite old enough for claret, but young Arthur had earned his lunch. He had spent two hours in Sherborne Abbey, singing, inter alia, an Agnus Dei. That abbey is another enclave in a darkling world: the Church of England as it ought to be. Endowed by the beauty of the ages, by the proper English liturgy and by the prayers of the faithful – almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian.

A numismatist as well as a chorister and an aspirant gardener, Arthur had been particularly taken, during the coronation service, by ‘Zadok the Priest’. Good music enters the bloodstream, and thus it was with him and Zadok. The grown-ups were happy to encourage him to go on singing it.

Oddly enough, I had not featured in Boris’s honours list. Yet compensation awaited. I was honoured when asked to become a late-onset godparent and promised not to bring too much disgrace on this splendid godson. Vivat Arthur. I had only one source of anxiety. In the C of E, godparents are supposed to abjure the devil and all his works. Might Satan not sue for breach of contract? But I cannot see Mephistopheles lurking about in Dorset. This is sacred ground.