QuickTake:
For someone with a longtime fascination with the British Royal family, being in England coincidentally on the day Queen Elizabeth died was a strange uncanny experience.
Ever since I was a teen in Minnesota with a crush on Prince Charles, I’ve followed the British royal family. I even asked our elderly neighbor if my sister and I could come to her house to watch Charles and Diana’s wedding on TV, that device not being allowed in our Amish household.
She said yes, God bless her. I still remember the fluffy silk dress and Diana mixing up Charles’ four names in the vows.
England and the royals were like the moon, admired from afar but entirely unreachable. Years later, I grew intrigued with Queen Elizabeth’s staunch character and performance of duties no matter what, even into old age.
My husband’s sister Lois and I had often talked of traveling to England together. The Christmas before we turned 60, Lois’ children told her the time had come and gifted her a generous fund for a flight to London, lodging and food. She invited her sisters and sisters-in-law to join her.
It worked out for four of us to go in September 2022: Lois; me; my husband’s youngest sister, Rosie; and his brother’s wife, Bonnie.
Rosie planned a complicated itinerary in London, and I planned our three-day stay in Edinburgh, Scotland. We would see Windsor Castle, Westminster Abbey, the Royal Mews at Buckingham Palace, and lochs and castles in Scotland.
Trying out an iconic phone booth in the United Kingdom. Credit: Dorcas Smucker
For a little Amish girl born in Iowa, it felt like a magic carriage had appeared to whisk me away. Anything was possible, surely, so I told my family I was off to have tea with the Queen.
The first evening in London, the others took a night tour of the Thames while I walked the mile back to our apartment on Leather Lane, past shiny new buildings side by side with the old and ornate. I stopped at a flower garden planted in the shell of an old church designed by Christopher Wren.
The next day, we wandered slowly around Westminster Abbey, where I remembered details from Prince William and Kate Middleton’s wedding. At the Tower of London, we observed a thousand years of history, some of it dark and disturbing, all of it hard to comprehend for Americans who think a hundred years is a very long time.
All the while, I had a strange sense of being taken from the farm and dropped into a fairy tale. Near Kensington Palace, police cars suddenly passed nearby and reappeared near the palace. A helicopter roared above us and landed on the lawn, and about six people exited black cars and entered the helicopter, which took off like it had important places to go.
Another onlooker informed us that this was the new prime minister, Liz Truss, being taken to Scotland for a meeting with the Queen.
The next day we took the train to Windsor Castle, taking in its unbelievable opulence and beauty and history. Late that afternoon, we heard that the Queen had died.
In disbelief, we returned to our apartment. Somehow we middle-aged Mennonites figured out the TV and watched the news with the same sadness and shock that permeated the nation.
Who would have dreamt that we would be here for this historic moment? It was hard to comprehend.
Our planned tours were canceled, of course. What should we do instead? Bonnie and I agreed: We should take flowers to Buckingham Palace to honor the queen.
We bought fresh sprays from a vendor on Leather Lane the next morning and headed out, eventually joining hundreds of people in a line that stretched for half a mile. The mood was subdued, a gentle sadness and a desire to honor someone who had been there all their lives. Rain began falling, appropriately. Families joined the long line as well as clusters of adults and a surprising number of young men, alone and carrying flowers.
We heard horses approaching, and one team of six majestic black horses followed another down the street past us, each pulling a black caisson and apparently practicing for the funeral procession.
The author leaves flowers at Buckingham Palace after learning the queen had died.
At the fence in front of the palace, I placed my flowers with a thousand others to honor the queen for her example of steady commitment to her calling, an example I hoped to follow.
In another bit of uncanny timing, we heard that the queen’s body would be transported to Edinburgh while we were there.
A train trip took us to Edinburgh, and, despite our canceled tours, we found plenty to see in that ancient city. On Sunday, law enforcement officers were everywhere, setting up barriers along the Royal Mile as we walked to Canongate Kirk for the morning service. A small crown perched on the back of a pew showing where the queen sat whenever she attended.
“It would be fun to be interviewed,” I said, noting the TV crews outside. Soon, a furry microphone the size of a large cat appeared before me and a reporter asked what brought me to the church that morning.
The procession was due to arrive late Sunday afternoon. After lunch, the crowds had increased along the barriers. “I think we still have time to go to see Edinburgh Castle,” Lois said. Bonnie and I looked at each other and agreed: We were staying right here.
Not far away, the barrier still had one empty spot. We claimed it and stood there for three hours.
Across from us was a courtyard with a large statue, barricaded from the crowd. Eventually, a procession of about 20 dignitaries, all in black, marched out of City Hall, behind us, and lined up across the street, near the statue.
Dignitaries waiting for the queen’s hearse, across from where the author was standing. Credit: Dorcas Smucker
Something was happening. Fifteen minutes later, a helicopter appeared overhead. Then a motorcycle came down the street followed by a line of five black cars.
The hearse passed by, almost near enough to touch. Through the glass we could see the Queen’s gold and red standard draped over the coffin.
“Goodbye,” I thought as she passed. “And thank you.”
Slowly, the crowd dispersed. Exhausted and pensive, we made our way back to our apartment, drank tea and rested. I checked the news on my phone and immediately saw a photo of the procession arriving in Edinburgh, with a line of black-clad people on one side of the street and a large crowd on the other.
“Wait. That looks just like …”
I zoomed in. “Bonnie!!” I shrieked, the somber mood forgotten. “We’re in the news!” Indeed, there we were, standing at the barrier, small heads in the crowd, just as the queen’s hearse was passing a few feet away.
A screenshot of a news story off of the author’s phone shows her (yellow circle) as the queen’s hearse passed by.
Two days later, our carriage turned into a plane, and we were back in Oregon in our rural and ordinary lives, where we cooked dinners, canned applesauce and paid bills. Like all fairy tales, ours mixed delight with sorrow, surprises with solemnity, and serendipity with sadness.
Every September we recall our trip to England, the improbable turn of events, and the strange experience of being there for a significant moment in history. And I drink tea and resolve a steady faithfulness to my calling in my white farmhouse castle on Powerline Road.
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