Diplomacy Is Dead. Can We Preserve It?

Hegemony is never truly peaceful. 

A world order orchestrated by one power is, even in the absence of war, not peaceful in any robust sense of the word. Instead, that order rests on the suppression of subversion from political contenders. It is peace in name only. 

This argument is nothing new. Tacitus qualifies the Pax Romana––the period between 27 BC and AD 180 when the Roman world was largely free of armed conflict––in this way. He argues that, following the death of Augustus in AD 14, there was peace, but it was a peace which was stained with blood (“pacem sine dubio post haec, verum cruentam”). 

Our current Pax Americana can be thought of much in the same way. The post-WW2 US-built Western democratic order has delivered decades of relative peace. However, this peace has come at a terrible cost. In exchange for political and economic stability, the West has given carte blanche to the White House. For years, this unchecked authority led to international policy that could be tolerated by American allies: ending Bretton Woods, supporting Pinochet in Chile, wars in Afghanistan and Iraq.

However, the current American administration is now breaking the rules of this tacit agreement. The pretence of Western multilateralism has been shattered. The US, and not the UN, runs the world. Everyone already knew it. Now, no one bothers to pretend otherwise.

Without the subtle deference of international co-operation, the global community requires a new idea of ‘diplomacy’. What does this look like for Britain? Some say that we need to re-integrate with Europe. Others that we need to get closer to Trump. But what if there was an entirely different space for Britain to move into? Something that could break this obsession with grand and sweeping foreign policy? Something that could play into our national strengths? Something like marmalade.

Who are the Britons?

What do you see when someone says ‘Britain’? Or rather, where do you see? The London Eye, or Stonehenge, or Durdle Door? These images surely spring to mind, but they are not living images of Britain. Landmarks are nothing but signs within our shared, national narrative (what Barthes would understand as ‘myths’). 

For instance, Stonehenge is widely understood as quintessentially British, so much so that the site has the power to draw in US presidents who happen to be passing through. The monument’s Britishness, however, does not arise from an intrinsic emotional attachment that a Briton may feel towards neolithic rock formations, but rather from that particular formation long being seen in the British psyche as a sign of national longevity. The fact that the people who constructed Stonehenge would have extremely little in common with the Britons of today does not prevent us from interpreting these Wiltshire stones as part of our island story. 

John Major got closer to the idea of ‘Britain’. Though he is not remembered as one of our most invigorating prime ministers, Major made a (reasonably) impassioned speech in 1993 on the twentieth anniversary of Britain’s membership of the European Community (and we all know how that story ends), in which he called Britain ‘the country of long shadows on county grounds, warm beer, invincible green suburbs, dog lovers and pool fillers’. This is a remarkably homely image of national pride, and yet it is one that rings true. 

When we think deeply and emotionally of Britain, we don’t think of our national triumphs or historical innovations. No one writes poems or holds onto old memories of the steam engine or parliamentary democracy. In our hearts, Britain is a series of small communities: sports clubs, parish councils, common interest groups, the regulars down the pub, village fetes and county fairs. It may be a historical truth that we were once a great nation of commerce and industry, the cradle of the Industrial Revolution, but, most fundamentally, we are more like a ‘nation of shopkeepers’, as Napoleon apocryphally described us.

Many of us may feel extremely patriotic when we watch The King’s Speech or hear a rendition of Rule Britannia!. But patriotism on this national and institutional level leaves us rather cold. In its warmest and most purely distilled form, our national spirit emerges around our local communities and the traditions and customs that bind them together. 

However, the parochial is not usually the forum of international diplomacy. Nations generally interact with one another through grandiose, carefully orchestrated affairs: summit meetings, state visits, parliamentary addresses. If Britain is to maintain its clout in an increasingly dysfunctional Trumpian world order, it must look to the provincial, the parochial and the bumpkin as the bedrock of its international standing.

In our backwaters and down our country lanes, this shift is already happening. And perhaps its shining example is The World Marmalade Awards.

An International Village Fete

At first glance, Dalemain is a typical English country house. 

Nestled in one of the picturesque, sheep-dotted valleys near Ullswater in the Lake District, the house’s history reflects much of Britain’s national history. The first recorded building on the site was a fortified pele tower, built in the reign of King Henry II, to keep watch over the marauding Scots to the North. A manor hall with a second tower was added in the 14th century, with two additional wings added in the 16th century. In 1679, Sir Edward Hasell, steward to Lady Anne Clifford, an important peeress and figure at the court of King James I, purchased Dalemain. His family lives there to this day.

Dalemain would perhaps be known only to local ramblers or rather well-informed National Trust members, if it weren’t for the festival that it hosts every year.

Since 2005, Dalemain has hosted the world’s foremost event for marmalade. For one Saturday each spring, the house and gardens are festooned with thousands of jars of fruit preserve. For the visitor, the festival offers every marmalade-related activity conceivable. There are jars to taste and jars to buy; there are Q&A sessions with experts sharing their tips and recipes; there are even panel discussions on the history of importing oranges to Britain, where in the 18^th century the process for making marmalade was first recorded.

Despite this yokel and anodyne appearance, the festival has an international reputation. This year, the festival received 3,400 entries from marmalade makers from around 40 countries, including Germany, Norway, Argentina, South Africa, Slovakia, Canada, Taiwan and Japan. Although the 2026 edition’s top prize of ‘Best in Show’ was awarded to David Hinkins of Somerset, Dalemain’s marmalade carries global weight. In 2025, Hitomi Wakamura of Tokyo was crowned champion for her yuzu and pear creation.

This victory underscored a long-standing link to Japan. Each year, The Dalemain Japan Marmalade Festival & Awards take place in Yawatahama, Ehime. Just as the champion of the competition at Dalemain wins the privilege of having their marmalade stocked in Fortnum & Mason for the coming year, the English grocer also sponsors the Japanese event and sells the winning entry in their UK and Japan stores. Similar festivals have also started in Australia and Senegal, both of them reinforcing the connection with the original event at Dalemain and in so doing transforming this sleepy country house into the hub of an international network. And this network can be seen on the ground. Guests of honour at the 2026 festival included the Spanish ambassador to the UK, representatives of the Consulate General of Japan in Edinburgh and the mayor of Yawatahama.

Dalemain projects a cosy image of Britain around the world. That cosy image (of country fairs, village fetes, marquees, bunting, tombolas, raffles, etc.) is not one that reflects the entirety of Britain but is one that seems to resonate with much of the country. And, crucially, it is an image through which Dalemain connects a pocket of Northern England to communities around the world. That is the power of marmalade.

Marmalade Diplomacy

At the World Economic Forum in January, the Canadian Prime Minister drew attention to the crumbling Pax Americana. In his speech, Carney argued that ‘the multilateral institutions on which the middle powers have relied – the WTO, the UN, the COP – the architecture, the very architecture of collective problem solving are under threat’.

This threat could not be more serious. As the US acts with greater disdain for the organisations that have long been pillars of international co-operation, the middle powers – countries that punch above their weight on the world stage through diplomacy, soft power and relationship building – will find themselves increasingly cut off from global decision-making. Or, as Carney put it: “The middle powers must act together, because if we’re not at the table, we’re on the menu”.

If Britain wants to help to usher in the era of the middle powers, it must adjust to a new concept of diplomacy. The influence of the UN may well be in its death throes. Who knows what kind of international community or global organisation will emerge to replace it? What is key is that Britain should not feel obliged to reinstate the emphasis that multilateral institutions have traditionally placed on pomp and ceremony.

We should not just be ‘a middle power’ but rather ‘a middling power’. Dalemain shows us that we can foster a considerable international presence by leaning into our national penchant for the rustic, the eccentric and the slightly antiquated. Soft power is perhaps Britain’s biggest international asset. Carney’s vision gives us the opportunity to devise a new recipe for it. Whatever we choose, marmalade must be on the menu.