To Buckingham Palace they came, first in anticipation, then in mourning. The transition from Elizabeth to Charles was signalled by the half-lowering of a flag and confirmed by a brief notice tied to the railings. As dusk fell the crowds swelled, the stormclouds gathered and the heavens opened. It was a lot quieter (and drier) after dawn. [16 photos]
First thing yesterday the roads in front of the palace had already been sealed off to vehicles, but those on foot could flood in via any route they liked. Some clutched bouquets bought along the way, some had their phones out to capture the scene and others suddenly had something new to see along the route of their routine early morning jog. Other than the central section of the palace railings, sealed off by barriers to leave some floral space, it was possible to wander anywhere.
A lot of TV and radio crews from around the world were on the spot, some reporting live and others merely preparing. It might have been pre-breakfast here but for some this would be a feed to the main evening news. Crossing in front of the palace meant weaving and dodging between suited execs and smiley anchors, with the ever-present risk of going live to audiences abroad. Most microphones bore acronyms I didn't recognise but I did spot one long-established BBC reporter either mingling to soak up the atmosphere or hunting for prey to interview later.
Where access to the railings was unfettered people were adding their own tributes, perhaps propping up an M&S posy against the lower rails or poking a bunch of wrapped stalks between the metalwork. In the segregated central section this was the prerogative of a kneeling police officer. Someone had managed to hang a bagful of blooms beneath the royal proclamation, probably the previous night, and someone else had slipped in a tiny Union Jack. Here and there a small white candle burned inside a glass jar, at least until extinguished by a later downpour.
For anyone leaving a paper tribute a laminator was essential, or at least one of those stationery pockets people used to use in ring binders. Thank You. God Bless You Ma'am. Grief Is The Price We Pay For Love. A black and white flag flapped from the palace gates, on which was pinned a drawing of the Queen walking off into the sunset holding Paddington Bear's hand. The presence of a Rainbow Care Bear served only to confirm the diversity of the mourners. And this was only the beginning of the upcoming tsunami.
Palace life continued beyond the railings. A black van from TSS Total Services circled the courtyard raking the gravel to ensure perfection for the day ahead. A red van from the Royal Mail pulled up at the gates requesting to be let out, its cargo of wellwishes delivered. By mid-afternoon the royal car would be driving through the other way, delivering our King to his London seat for the first time, and the crowds greeting him outside would be phenomenally deeper than this.
If you paused by the railings to pay silent tribute you risked becoming the target for a number of long lenses. But most stood a little further back - far better to absorb the scene than to be part of it - or simply walked through and soaked in the experience. I saw little grief, indeed the 24 hours following the Queen's death have seen far less national outpouring than had perhaps been long expected. But there was great respect on display, and considerable pause for reflection, and a collective feeling of turning the page.
I see that later in the day the queue to deliver tributes to the palace gates was up to four hours long. It may well be longer than that this weekend, and heaven knows the lengths that the lying-in-state at Westminster Hall next week will bring. But if you slipped in just after dawn on the first morning of the post-Elizabethan era it was quick and simple to pay one's respects, and then be home in time to watch it all on BBC Breakfast.
