Chris Lloyd: A day in London fit, in every respect, for our Queen

Draped in the red and gold splendour of the Royal Standard, the coffin was carried shoulder high, slowly and solemnly, towards the waiting gun carriage so that Her Majesty could begin her final journey to her last resting place.

The Northern Echo (Image: The Northern Echo)

As it turned to pass through the ranks of the naval ratings, heads bowed and hatless, the low September sun caught it, illuminating the items placed on top of the flag. The sun lit up the colours in King Charles’ wreath – the burgundies and the pinks – and it glinted and gleamed down the entire length of the golden sceptre.

And then it sparkled and twinkled, brilliant white like a queen’s smile, through the 2,901 precious stones on the Imperial State Crown.

So carefully was the coffin passed into the care of the carriage that only the nodding flowers in the wreath betrayed its progress.

At the bellow of their bearskinned commander, the 98 naval ratings replaced their headgear and immediately picked up the rhythm of the pound, pound, pound, pound of a big bass drum, their feet crunching as crisply as handclaps in the anti-slip sand on the tarmac.

As they moved away, the royal family followed, King Charles always slightly to the fore but Prince William standing tall and slim in the line behind, waiting his time.

And so Her Majesty was away. Away into Parliament Square. As she passed the foot of Big Ben, its muffled bell boomed a deep sonorous mourning toll that shook the city to its rumbling foundations.

Away into the streets crowded with a million or more mourners – her people, real people – who had been waiting for hours to say one final farewell to Britain’s longest reigning monarch.

The night before, the people had turned central London into a tent city called Bonhomie, with campers three or four deep along the Mall, while other spectators had perched themselves improbably onto every government office windowsill with a vantage point in Whitehall.

All around them flowed a mass of humanity, seeking out the perfect viewing spot. “Have we just come for a stroll in London in the dark, mummy?” asked a young lad clutching a large soft reindeer with which he hoped to bed down for the night when the perfect spot was located.

The campers entertained themselves by guessing the occupants of the motorcades that were flashing through the closed off streets. One car and two police outriders was a tinpot potentate; four outriders and two limos was a mid-ranking European state; ten outriders and numerous limos was someone terribly important, like Joe Biden or even Ben Houchen.

At around 10pm, a squadron of litterpickers swept down the Mall, showing how the event had been planned in meticulous detail. Not even a stray dogend should remain lest it offend Her Majesty.

“I’ve never seen London so crowded but so quiet,” said one passerby, for there were no rowdy football crowd songs, only good natured respect.

In the early hours of the morning, the press to the abbey and the palace intensified, the newcomers stumbling in the halflight over the slumbering shapes of people on the pavement beneath blankets and tarpaulins.

But Parliament Square and Broad Sanctuary leading to the Great West Door of the abbey were closed to this huddle of humanity, and a tiered media platform had been built to broadcast the scenes to all four corners of the globe and beyond. Naturally, on the tiering system, The Northern Echo was several rungs below Gyles Brandreth who, from high up, told in mellifluous tones anecdotes that went on for centuries.

At 9.24am, all anecdotes stopped with one strike of the abbey bell. It was the first of 96, one for each year of Her Majesty’s life, that presaged the formal start of the ceremonies. The six-strong team of rakers, who had been combing the anti-slip sand on the tarmac outside the abbey to the perfection of a Rockliffe Hall bunker hurriedly disappeared so wave after wave of carefully choreographed buses and limos could drive over the sand and disgorge their contents in order of importance.

US President Biden had the biggest convoy, his Beast limo – which had earlier got stuck in traffic outside Pret a Manger at Marble Arch – having such heavy doors his security men had to prise one open to let him out while his secret special surveillance vehicle, with all sorts of whirring, gyring devices on its roof which protect him from incoming missiles, stood out a mile as it discretely brought up the rear.

Then came the former British Prime Ministers, from Boris Johnson backwards through time to Sir John Major, and then came Her Majesty herself.

To indicate she had begun her journey from Westminster Hall, the roadside servicepeople as one bowed their heads and a silence so deep enveloped London that even the leaves on the sycamores were still. In such a silence, the sound of the flag in the abbey’s tallest tower being lowered, ratchet by ratchet by ratchet, was almost deafening.

The silence did not last long as Her Majesty approached in a swirling, swelling, spinetingling fury of noise because the gun carriage was led up Broad Sanctuary by a huge band of pipes and drums. An uncountable number of bagpipers advanced strung out across the highway followed by a phalanx of rapid-fire drummers. Together they kicked out an awe-inspiring, percussive din which bounced back off the white walls of the abbey.

It was truly majestic.

The pipies and drums stopped abruptly. The silence folded in to an embrace so that the coffin, draped in red and gold, and topped by the wreath and all the symbols of state, could be carried respectfully, reverentially in through the Great West Door and the funeral service could begin.

What a way to say farewell! What a great show of towering respect and admiration for Her Majesty’s dedicated service over 70 years! What a day fit, in every respect, for our Queen.