I watched the silent sepulchral tide flow, then slow to a halt... dumbstruck
MAJESTY. Pure majesty. No other word does justice to the spellbinding sight which awaits those lucky enough to reach the end of what will be one of the longest queues in living memory.
Last night, I watched this silent, sepulchral tide flow, then slow, then come to a dumbstruck halt.
For as you turn the corner into the vaulted masterpiece of Westminster Hall, you are confronted by a vision of timeless, incomparable grandeur.
You stand at the top of the mighty flagstone staircase leading down into this country’s most ancient and august gathering place – the same steps from which the Queen herself would address both Houses of Parliament on her jubilees and other great anniversaries.
And it hits you between the eyes like a searchlight.
Behold the longest-reigning – and many will say greatest – monarch in the thousand-year story of these islands lying in state in the very heart of our democracy.
Resting on her Royal Standard-draped oak coffin, atop its purple-draped catafalque, is not just the Imperial State Crown but also the Orb and Sceptre. It is their first appearance alongside the late sovereign since her coronation in 1953.
No wonder everyone stops in their tracks.
In two lines, they then step slowly down the staircase to the main hall and shuffle ponderously either side of this monumental centrepiece. Once level with the coffin, everyone bows. Some curtsey, too.
One man performs a double, palm-pressed ‘namaste’ and drops on to the deep, sand- coloured carpet to touch the floor.
A few weep openly. One middleaged woman tries to hold it together but then her face melts and she buries it in a turquoise pashmina.
A few are dressed smartly for a funeral, in suit and tie or black dress and hat. Most are dressed for the five-mile queue which they have just endured uncomplainingly.
Here before them is the essence of constitutional monarchy writ glorious in silk, diamonds, silver, velvet, sapphires, pearls, halberds, breastplates, swords, oak, brilliantly-buffed boot leather, Norman stonework and so much else.
Yet here, too, are trainers, anoraks, hoodies and jeans in the presence of Her Late Majesty. Why not? This is simply a snapshot of the 21st-century Britain she loved and served every bit as diligently as the capdoffing Britain which squeezed into its Sunday best before filing past her darling father in 1952.
There is no dress code here, merely a rigidly imposed ban on photography (official photographers are there to capture the scenes you see here).
Here is a two-way act of recognition – our late sovereign paying
‘A snapshot of the Britain she loved’