King Charles III and Princess Anne on The Queen’s final procession in Edinburgh, and my experience queuing for The Queen’s vigil
On one level I’ve no idea why I wanted to view the Queen’s procession in Edinburgh. As my Mum said, it seemed too soon after losing Dad to see a coffin. But it felt important and it was feasible so my friend Liz and I settled on a plan late on Sunday night. It wasn’t much of a plan but it began with pre-booking a parking space, collecting Liz en route and driving from the south side of Glasgow to Haymarket in Edinburgh. Fearing traffic chaos, we had a plan B to abandon the car on the outskirts and walk. But it all worked out.
All words and photos are © Julie Broadfoot and mustn’t be copied, downloaded, screengrabbed or used anywhere without permission and payment.
We parked easily at noon. Where to go next? Maybe we could get a spot outside Holyrood. Was it even possible? Were we hours late? We passed the crowds outside St Giles along the way and had no idea what would face us next.
We kept walking and, remarkably, found a quiet spot on Canongate, not far from Holyrood. We got to the front. We made new friends - Mark was up from Hertfordshire to bring his daughter to her second year at Uni, Kieran was on a fortunately-timed holiday and decided to delay Munro-bagging for a couple of days, Elizabeth was in town from Germany, and lovely Sean the policeman was stationed beside us. We shared stories and snacks.
Snipers perched on nearby balconies, TV cameras were stationed at regular intervals and I recognised the BBC lanyards from afar, a gaggle of weary press photographers filled a staircase beside us, a woman across the road stood reading her book for the entire wait, a dreadlocked shopkeeper rolled a cigarette as she peeked out her doorway, a wee dog lay beyond the inner barrier (he had unspoken special permission to stay there but looked utterly fed up), a family frantically used an umbrella to retrieve a small child’s toy from the road before time was up.
At home in Perth, my Mum barely moved from the TV and sent updates which helped when my phone could catch a network. Her message announcing the procession had left Holyrood reached me before the BBC Breaking News alert. She’s proud of that.
The jovial crowd was hit by silence and a swell of emotion that we still can’t identify. Flanked by soldiers on this narrow street, the hearse appeared beside us. After a moment of reflection, I realised the new King was only a few feet away. I stared for a second then quickly got photos of Charles and Princess Anne. Camilla and Sophie passed in a car. And then it was done. Sean could breathe again, knowing the next policeman was at the helm now. A TV commentator made a twee remark about it certainly being the ‘Royal’ Mile now. But it struck true.
It took us a while to gather ourselves after those intense minutes. We failed to find a way to the Meadows for wristbands (along with thousands of others, we were at the ‘wrong’ side of a blocked Royal Mile) so we wandered back up the road. As we approached St Giles again, we heard the Queen’s Scottish funeral being broadcast to the public so we stood and listened. I found myself joining in the recital of the Lord’s Prayer, and God Save The Queen. Or King. I honestly can’t tell you what it was at that point.
Latin translation: ‘Hope of Another Life’.
As the royals left the cathedral, we were in a throng of spectators. Shoulders lifted and phones blocked our view. But we’d seen plenty. We deliberated and I photographed a few dignitaries leaving the service- Douglas Ross, Alister Jack, Ann Hodgson, Ming Campbell, Robert Hardman and others (thank you to those of who have helped identify faces).
We made more friends. Kate and Rachel were two teachers who came straight from school. We chatted with them and made a joint decision to queue for the vigil. It felt slightly absurd but we went for it. As crossings finally opened up, they helped us navigate the chaos and we saw the beginning of the queue. It took quite a while to find the end. It snaked right through The Meadows. Kate and Rachel left us as we found Liz’s niece Emma and joined her in the queue.
This was about 5pm. We got chatting to a couple of women beside us - Andrea and Mixar - and became a gang of five. None of us knew what we were getting into and I don’t think any of us started the day intending to queue for so long. Some of us considered leaving but we stuck together. A man named Kevin lent Andrea his coat, a policeman sourced a foil blanket for Mixar. An enterprising guy cycled past, selling cupcakes and bottles of water. We remained dehydrated for fear of never getting near a loo. A pizza delivery arrived for some men a few feet ahead, sparking laughter around us and admiration for their ingenuity.
We moved a little. We waited. We moved a little more. We watched the queue grow behind us, spanning every path. And we waited some more, taunted by the ‘move’ prompts on my Garmin. I guesstimated a 9pm entry. We occasionally asked officials for updates. Two hours to go. Four hours to go. 90 minutes to go. Five hours to go. Nobody really had a clue.
After two and a half hours, and still a mile away from St Giles, I was told I couldn’t take my camera and bag into the cathedral. With guidance issued while we were on the M8, I hadn’t seen rules about cameras in bags. Whilst I had an existential crisis about being separated from my camera, I was separated from my gang. I nearly gave up at that point. A lovely man who’d already been to St Giles and back told me he’d also had to check stuff in and it was fine. So I left my camera in a lorry disguised as a left luggage locker and slowly moved on until I found the volunteers handing out those magical wristbands. Mine was pink. I phoned Liz. What colour is yours? Pink! All hope wasn’t lost. With a gap ahead, I sped forward and was reunited with the girls.
A photographer friend, Liana, was making her way back to the left luggage lorry and our paths crossed in Bristo Square. I met her baby whose life story to date could fill a book. And now he’s seen the Queen at rest in Edinburgh.
As we trundled on, Liz described it as a pilgrimage. The type of pilgrimage where smug diners in Nando’s watch you stand shivering in the street. The type of pilgrimage where you compare notes with strangers also wearing disappointingly plain paper wristbands. The type of pilgrimage where you pack as though you’re going to a stadium gig and wonder if you’ll be allowed to hold onto your unopened cereal bar.
More TV cameras were in sight while people figured out the logistics of trains home (and Kevin tried to keep track of his jacket). Google Maps said we were a 5 minute walk from St Giles. Hilariously optimistic.
We reached the airport-style scanners and I threw away the dog biscuits which live in my handbag (the corgi we met later was disappointed). The search was a bit shambolic but apparently I was lucky that my camera batteries and hand sanitiser made it through. Not long now. Rumour had it newcomers to the queue faced a ten hour wait.
At 9.45pm St Giles stood in front of us. The mood changed. We thanked each other for being there. One day Andrea will tell her toddler about the experience and how we kept each other going. My friend Anneli messaged to say there was a live feed on Sky News… but it cut to chat about Liz Truss and our historical broadcast was missed.
At 9.52pm we were at the front door. Our aching legs felt like we’d run a 10k and we could hardly climb three stairs inside. The cathedral was silent. We split into single file, allowing everyone their own moment by the side of Her Majesty’s coffin. Seeing it pass in the hearse felt special but this was somehow different. I think I saw The Crown of Scotland first and was taken aback. We hadn’t seen any news footage on our travels so had no idea it was there. Then the men I’ve since learned are the Company of Archers guarding The Queen. I paused with my thoughts and bowed beside her. Our path took us around the front of the coffin. Another bow. And we left.
A five hour queue for three solemn minutes inside. I can’t get my head around any of it but it was so moving. I’m so glad we did it. I’m so grateful to everyone involved.
Reliving it now, I want to savour the warmth, respect and peace. I’ll spare you the daftness of the rest of our adventure. Enjoy the photos.
All words and photos are © Julie Broadfoot and mustn’t be copied, downloaded, screengrabbed or used anywhere without permission and payment.