The Queen's Coronation and me.
We travelled by car from "Raleigh Country" in East Devon to Kensington Gardens in London where my grandmother ran a hotel; I was eight years old, my elder sister was eleven; our younger sisters remained behind with my mother. To ease the journey we awarded points to the towns along the way for their various Coronation decorations; Honiton, the first town we passed, won by a mile.
We slept out on the street, as far as I can recall from later knowledge of the West End, we were alongside the RAC Club, where an unfinished stand allowed us to climb higher for a better view of the procession when it finally came. The Mall was packed the night before, with Evening Newspaper hoardings proclaiming the conquest of Everest and large groups loudly singing "How much is that doggy in the window".
A sailor had cut his neck on his bayonet and the blood seeped downwards, the Queen smiled directly at my sister, and the rain stopped when she passed. We just caught the flypast by the RAF over Admiralty arch, as we went down the steps to the Tube at Trafalger Square to return to Gloucester Road.
The bath water I shared with my sister had to be changed three times bfore all the soot had been drained away. Soot stood about four inches high on every ledge of the buildings and their railings where we'd tried to sleep on rubber bathing rings. I was glad I'd gone but was glad to return to Devon!
My paternal Grandfather, who fought with the Canadian Expeditionary Forces, having gone to that Country as a teenager before the war, taught me most of what it meant in those days to be British, re-inforced by my fiercely monarchy supportive father. That beleif, now re-inforced by the knowledge of the sacfifices of my maternal grandfather ( and those of his brothers) who finished the Great War as a RNAS POW in Holland, is what this Queen has allowed to be sacrificed by following the false advice of many of her ministers in handing our governance to foreigners.
Is the time, 60 years along, perhaps now approaching for that great betrayal to be corrected?
We slept out on the street, as far as I can recall from later knowledge of the West End, we were alongside the RAC Club, where an unfinished stand allowed us to climb higher for a better view of the procession when it finally came. The Mall was packed the night before, with Evening Newspaper hoardings proclaiming the conquest of Everest and large groups loudly singing "How much is that doggy in the window".
A sailor had cut his neck on his bayonet and the blood seeped downwards, the Queen smiled directly at my sister, and the rain stopped when she passed. We just caught the flypast by the RAF over Admiralty arch, as we went down the steps to the Tube at Trafalger Square to return to Gloucester Road.
The bath water I shared with my sister had to be changed three times bfore all the soot had been drained away. Soot stood about four inches high on every ledge of the buildings and their railings where we'd tried to sleep on rubber bathing rings. I was glad I'd gone but was glad to return to Devon!
My paternal Grandfather, who fought with the Canadian Expeditionary Forces, having gone to that Country as a teenager before the war, taught me most of what it meant in those days to be British, re-inforced by my fiercely monarchy supportive father. That beleif, now re-inforced by the knowledge of the sacfifices of my maternal grandfather ( and those of his brothers) who finished the Great War as a RNAS POW in Holland, is what this Queen has allowed to be sacrificed by following the false advice of many of her ministers in handing our governance to foreigners.
Is the time, 60 years along, perhaps now approaching for that great betrayal to be corrected?
posted by Martin at 8:34 AM
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