The Queen lying in state in Westminster Hall

NO matter what time, or how cold it has been, they have come in their droves, old and young, families, friends and people on their own, getting off at Bermondsey Station, turning right and starting the most famous pilgrimage in Britain since Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales.

It was a bright but cold start on Sunday, as there was less than 24 hours to walk the five miles to see the Queen’s coffin lying in state at the Palace of Westminster. There was a bubble of nervous anticipation. What could lie ahead?

It began. Straight across the road out of Southwark Park and up the road. The first sight of the Thames was glimpsed next to a wonderful Victorian pub the Angel. Straight on, and a few dog legs led us to Shad Thames, part of the old docks and wharfs that led London to become one of the world’s trade centres.

Part of the experience in The Queue has been the opportunity to bump into and meet people and I got talking to the family in front, who kindly adopted me and took me under their wing. As ever, people were far more complex than you would think.

This group were neither raving royalists nor republicans, just four people with a keen sense of what it meant for the country, its history, and who had a urge to pay their respects to the Queen after 70 years on the throne.

Much to my luck, they were an interesting bunch who were happy to talk about everything and anything, from the history of London, to motorcycling across Europe, the Tattershall Castle bar across the river and when smoking on aeroplanes was banned in the UK. All stuff that literally passed the time of day.

Landmarks came and went. Me and one of the group popped in to the pub, the Old Tameside Inn for a swift drink. From strangers to having a pint within an hour or so. In Britain. Who would have thought it?

On we went, ticking off landmarks. London Bridge, Borough Market, the Tate, the Millennium Bridge and the Southbank.

A quick whirl around Jubilee Gardens and we were crossing Westminster Bridge. Parliament was in sight. Parliament, and the coffin.

The reason why we were there, the reason why we had got out of bed in the small hours of a Sunday morning, was just up ahead.

Security was cleared, phones were switched off and silence descended. Like a dense fog, a solemn, respectful, purposeful atmosphere fell. After two flights of padded stairs we were in; Westminster Hall unfolding in front of us, with the yeomen, police officers, hundreds of people, the now-famous catafalque and, of course, the Queen’s coffin.

Every step soon becomes part of the pageantry, no matter how much you resist. The slow steps, one foot softly placed at a time, brings back memories of King Charles and his siblings in the hall two days ago, of seeing Prince William and the Queen’s other grandchildren there on Saturday night. MPs and foreign leaders have spoken there, Charles I was tried within its walls, Henry VIII infamously played tennis – but the events of the past few days are stronger and more vivid, more relatable, more real.

It’s easy to try and resist, but suddenly you are part of another ceremony, another procession.