The Queen is Dead. God Save the King

We'd just stopped for lunch when our phones started pinging in chorus. The Queen was gravely ill. the family was gathering. There wasn't much more, but given the unprecedented nature of the announcements, it was enough.  We continued our own journey, but switched the audio to Radio 4 awaiting any scrap of news.

We were en route to our 23rd annual girls' trip, four nights on the Pembrokeshire coast. Our Welsh trips already had an Elizabethan association. Way back in 2002, trip no. 3 saw us holed up in a manor house in North Wales over the Golden Jubilee Bank Holiday weekend. Our trio of American-born, newly-naturalised UK citizens had decided on the trip because all of our London friends had assured us that nothing was going on that weekend and nobody would be terribly excited about the official stuff the palace had planned. Reality proved them spectacularly wrong. In the two decades since our trio has watched our adopted home evolve from a country that rejected any outward show of patriotism (Last night of the Proms excepted) to one that proudly celebrates national occasions. And Elizabeth had given us plenty.

It was a sad irony to be in Wales together, once again, for her farewell. Ironic, too, that three American-born immigrants would take it so hard. Or maybe not. It was no surprise that we were all getting more pings from American contacts than British ones. Hamilton pulls in the crowds by showing Americans throwing off the yoke of a petulant king. These days, Americans tend to be more ardent royalists than many Brits. I’m convinced that when you live in an entirely elected system where all of your leaders are politicians, and politics itself has been weaponised to extremes, an a-political Head of State is a vast improvement. (For more on that, read this defence of the idea.)  

But that might be over-thinking it. Much of monarchy's magic comes from its majestic glamour. I was honoured and delighted to be a close witness at the State Opening of Parliament in 1999. I was working closely with an MP at the time who got me a seat in the Royal Gallery, the bit through which the Queen processes formally before taking her throne in the House of Lords to read her government's speech. (American readers: it's a bit like a State of the Union address, with a focus on what's coming in the next year. The words are not the monarch's; she has to read what she's given.) 

This was a particularly good year because it was the last before the majority of the hereditary peers were reformed out of government, so everyone turned up. From our seats we could see into the Princes' Chamber, where all the aristocrats were gathering to meet, greet and check the positioning of their  coronets. Many of the red velvet, ermine-edged robes looked decidedly fragile and I could swear there was a scent of mothballs drifting into the room. Many attics had been emptied for this last hurrah. Jamie Lee Curtis added a touch of Hollywood stardust to the occasion, attending with husband Christopher Guest. The actor is also the Baron Haden-Guest, and an example of one of those peers who normally didn't have much to do with Westminster. But with the right to attendance about to be snatched away, everyone turned up. 

Whether moth-holed or newly-minted, the peers faded into insignificance at the first trumpet fanfare. In marched the heralds in their tabards stiff with gold thread. Behind them the queen, escorted by the Duke of Edinburgh, both radiating a dignity and charisma beyond the simply human. This is one of the few occasions the monarch actually wears the state crown, and seeing it in use is a very different thing from viewing it behind glass at the Tower of London. The jewels flash, sparkle and cascade shards of light around the room, constantly moving as the wearer does. The music, the light, the ceremony all converge into something distinctly religious and other-worldly in tone. You are meant to be, quite literally, awe-struck. And I was.

This is, of course, the intent. In the widest sense, the monarch isn't a person, or a job, it's the embodiment of the United Kingdom. More than 2,000 years of history. All that is noble and worthy and magnificent about this country, channeled into one institution that carries on and stands above the indignities of political squabbling and day-to-day life. The religious nature of the ceremony descends from the Middle Ages and kicked up a notch when Henry VIII turned away from Rome. While there was once God and King in charge, now there was only King, and he would take all the bells and smells for himself.

The charm of Elizabeth Windsor was that she could carry this off while at the same time enjoying a picnic out of Tupperware, chatting to the common people, giving a friendly nod to locals in Windsor, and placing losing bets on race horses. Just like us. (Except she owned the horses.) It's a humility and a desire to connect with the people that stretches back through her ancestors. Farmer George, aka George III, preferring a poky house at Kew and his vegetable plot to the palace. Victoria fancying herself a normal housewife. George V finding entertainment in stamp collecting. That combination of humility and majesty is part of what kept the British monarchy intact when revolutions toppled others throughout the 19th and 20th centuries.

Another part is the ability to change with the times. The Elizabeth who shared tea with Paddington Bear was a different woman from the one who took the throne. The British Monarchy changes and evolves with its people. King Charles III has a challenging road ahead. I'm confident he will carry forward the best of his mother's time and learn from past mistakes. When I became a citizen I swore to "be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second, Her Heirs and Successors, according to law." And I meant it.

Thank you, ma'am. And God Save the King.