The warnings were horrendous: queues of up to 35 hours snaking for up to 10 km.

No chairs allowed. No camping equipment. Don’t bring anything but a bag with a single opening. Expect airport-like security. You’ll be on your feet for hours. Don’t come if you aren’t fit enough.

Daunting? You bet. But you don’t fly thousands of kilometres to share in the grief of the queen’s death and witness the events leading up to her funeral without giving everything your best shot.

Seeing her lying-in-state would be sharing in history, a memory of a lifetime.

So I head off on Thursday morning, the start of the first full day of her lying-in-state. I can see the line snaking along the sidewalks as my bus approaches London Bridge but I have no idea where it ends.

I join a stream of people heading down to the Thames River. “All the way to the back of the queue,” security guards shout. “All the way down there.”

On and on I walk, under Tower Bridge, along the ancient streets of central London to the borough of Southwark, with its upmarket restaurants and revamped apartments in centuries-old buildings.

I nip into a shop to stock up on snacks and water (which is sold out, so I buy a Lucozade) and after about 20 minutes I get to the end of the line. A policewoman is patiently answering the question everyone is asking: “How long till the end?”

“About nine to 10 hours,” she says.

It’s now 12.30 pm. But no matter, two women in front of me say. They’re here now and they’re sticking it out. Yes, the woman next to me says. The queen is who we came for. We can’t leave without seeing her.”

Over the next eight hours, the women and I get to know each other well. Sue and Sam are a mom and daughter from Kent. Nelka, who is originally from Sri Lanka, lives in Finchley in London.

Then there’s Tracie and Sue, sisters from Bristol, who’ve had T-shirts of the queen as a beautiful young woman specially printed for the occasion.

We share our stories. Nelka had a bad car accident a few years ago and struggles to walk for long but she’s soldiering along. She has a seemingly bottomless bag of snacks she shares – mini-Cheddars, apples, sandwiches, sugary biscuits, sweets, gum.

Tracie and Sue buy containers of steaming-hot chips and offer them around. Sue keeps sneaking ciggies, blowing the smoke furtively out of the side of her mouth.

Sam is an intensive care nurse and talks about what it was like being at the forefront of the Covid nightmare. Her mum used to live on the Ise of Wight “which the royals love, you know, for the sailing”, but moved to Kent to be close to Sam and the grandchildren.

At Tower Bridge we’re given purple wristbands which will allow us to enter the area near Westminster Hall. A man suddenly appears next to me. He claims he’s “just been to the toilet” but I send him packing. The British may be too polite to evict a queue-jumper but South Africans are made of stern stuff. 

On and on we go. Some areas of the queue move quickly and we walk through some of the loveliest parts of London, the route taking us along the Thames, past galleries, museums and theatres, restaurants, markets and stalls.

There are porta-loos at regular intervals and you can go and then rejoin the queue. My little group wave wildly when one of us nips off to pee so we can see where to get back in line.

Police officers hand out bottles of water every so often and I spot two complimentary tea and coffee stands but the queues are too long (and the thought of the loo too daunting).

Near London Bridge we suddenly spot a bride and groom walking hand in hand along the embankment in the opposite direction. They get get oohs and aahs from the crowd as they stroll off, the bride’s gown trailing on the ground.

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Hours pass. The weather is pleasant, the sun breaking through the clouds. But as the day wears on a chilly wind whips up from the water and jackets come out.

At Westminster Bridge security kicks in in earnest. No one without a wristband is allowed past this area – which is a pity for me because my daughter Kate was on her way with coffee and a fortifying little something in a tin. I call her and tell her to abort the mission.

On the grassy area below the bridge it starts to feel like we’re really getting somewhere. We can see Westminster Hall where the queen is lying and the crowd starts buzzing.

But it’s a case of so near yet so far. The queue is now divided into lines, zig-zagging down the lawn, and progress slows to a crawl. Dusk arrives and lights start to go on, the houses of parliament across the river twinkling in the setting sun. It’s beautiful – but I’m starting to flag.

Nelka comes to the rescue again. From her Mary Poppins bag comes a Kit-Kat and it’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever given me. Bristol Sue is puffing away on her illicit rollie and trying to bolster the mood. “We can do it, girls! Not long to go now!”

Finally, finally, we make it through and onto the street outside Westminster Hall. “You did it, everyone,” a beaming security guard says as we head into the hall for the security check.

No liquid is any form is allowed, including Vaseline, liquid makeup, hand sanitiser and vape fluid. Lighters are confiscated. Bags go through a scanner, belts and jackets have to be removed. Phones have to switched off.

We pass through a body-screening machine and if you set off the buzzer you’re patted down.

And then comes the moment we’ve waited over eight hours for. My little group is hugging. Nelka is already in tears.

We make our way up to the stone steps, through the doors and into the hall with its beautiful high vaulted ceiling. A set of steps, covered with a thick brown carpet, leads down to where the coffin rests on the catafalque.

Seeing the coffin is a sobering moment. The majority of us have never known the world without the queen in it – now she too is gone, lying at rest right before our eyes.

Her glittering crown is at the coffin’s head, her orb and sceptre and a wreath of flowers below it.

There’s no noise in the hall except for soft weeping as we slowly make our way down the steps – until one of the Yeomen of the Guard, standing in an alcove to the left, raps his staff twice on the ground and we’re quietly ordered to stop moving.

It’s time for the changing of the guard, which happens every 20 minutes, and we’re fortunate as it means we get to spend longer in the queue.

Four guards in bearskin hats appear at the far side of the hall and slowly and with military precision march to the side of the catafalque. They march up the steps and stand beside the existing guards, then they all raise their swords to their faces and the four guards to be relieved make their way down the steps.

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An elderly man and woman holding a bucket then approach the four large candles, two on either side of the coffin. The man peels the long strips of wax that have dripped down the candles and places them in the bucket.

We move down to the coffin. Some women curtsey to the queen. Some men bow at the waist. Many people, tears streaming down their faces, lower their heads in prayer.

I can’t keep my eyes off the crown that once rested on the head of the most famous woman in the world. For me, it’s the most moving sight of all. Under the lid of the lead-lined coffin lies Queen Elizabeth, the woman I’ve written so much about for so many years. It’s hard to believe the world will never see her again.

As we near the back of the hall, an official dressed in black stands at the door as we all file past. “Thank you,” she says, making eye contact with as many people as she can. “Thank you for coming.”

Nelka hugs me one last time before disappearing into the night. “We’ll never forget this,” she says.

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