Tears for the Queen

I'm now at Brora in the far north of Scotland, although not yet the furthest north I shall take my caravan. Today I was away nine hours on a long - rather too long - day trip to the west coast, the main objective being Lochinver, but I took in Assynt and Scourie as well. 195 miles! Here and there I could get some Mobile Internet. I got it at the Oykel Bridge Hotel on the A837, where I enjoyed a haggis-and-cheese baked potato with salad, washed down with a gin and tonic. I checked the BBC News website. It was mainly about the new Prime Minister's price-fixing proposals on energy bills. It sounded like good news, although how it might effect my own direct debit payments to SSE wasn't yet clear.  

My return journey via Laxford Bridge and the A838 was mostly alongside a series of lochs hemmed in by wild-looking mountains, and there was absolutely no digital radio signal to be had. So I couldn't listen to the news at five o'clock, nor the six o'clock news. But at seven o'clock, when the light was failing, and when I wasn't too far from Brora, I caught a snatch of the new main topic: the Queen had died. 

She was ninety-six and frail. Her doctors had advised against public engagements for the time being. I should have been expecting serious news concerning her, but this was a shock. I'm not one to react immediately, but within a minute or two tears came to my eyes. I almost pulled in, but I felt so tired that I pressed on, wiping my eyes. You can see from the shot below that even when back at the caravan, I still felt upset.

I had been moved and comforted when the Queen made that lockdown broadcast from Windsor in April 2020, and I'd felt for her when Prince Philip died in April 2021. She had my respect, and I admired her, but I hadn't felt great personal affection for the Queen: she was too remote, a consequence of her special role. She was simply there in the background of my life. One of the threads that was woven into my personal tapestry.

Yes, I suppose that was it: she had been part of my own history. I was born in the same year that she came to the throne - 1952 - and she was always there from my birth onwards. Her image was on banknotes and coins. The Beatles mentioned her in several of their songs. The Rolling Stones dedicated a song to her, after enjoying her hospitality following a drugs bust. She inspired the Sex Pistols too. There were Jubilees. My Dad got a Jubilee Medal from her in 1977. In the same year I was in a boat off Spithead, cheering the fleet that she had just reviewed. Later on, in 2006, I organised a 60th Wedding Anniversary Message from Buckingham Palace for Mum and Dad. She touched my family. Her father, King George VI, was never more to me than an historical figure. But the Queen was a real person, who stood for something, and grew old as I grew old, except that she was always much further down the line than I was. And now she had gone. I think the tears were at least partly because one of the big things that had defined my life had come to an end. I suddenly felt exposed, unprotected, remaindered, a relic of an era now finished. 

And so Charles finally becomes King. How odd it feels to be talking about a King: never before in my lifetime. I'm glad that he is calling himself Charles III. There was some rumour that he would avoid 'Charles' because of the previous two kings called that, one of whom lost the Civil War and his head, and the other having a reputation for degenerate behaviour. Well, this Charles can make amends if he so wishes; and I think he will make changes but not do anything rash. Some may mutter darkly about his wife Camilla being Queen Consort, but not me. I think King Charles III will strike the right tone, and not mess up in any way. 

An odd coincidence that Liz Truss and King Charles assume their roles almost on the same day. I hope they get on.