Yes, it’s my view that Trastevere is best enjoyed by indulging in what I call aimless wandering. My recommendation is to set off without a cellphone, or even an old-fashioned paper map, and get yourself lost. Piazzas, churches, tiny streets…there’s nothing here that will fail to disappoint. And, personally, I could walk these streets every day for the rest of my life and not get bored. It’s really that beautiful…
The tiny, narrow streets are reminiscent of medieval times; its alleyways a veritable labyrinth. Packed full of small stores (selling artsy clothes and bijoux jewellry), it’s the perfect place to get lost in Rome. Traditional thin-crust pizza, artisan gelato, splendid churches, hipster bars and coffee shops aplenty, it would take a true Hard-Hearted Hannah not to be charmed…
Inside, the tiered seating covered a huge underground area in which cages and machinery were based. The floor of the arena itself was wooden but covered in sand, which served a dual purpose - to stop gladiators from slipping, but also to soak up blood spilt after gruesome fights. Lions and tigers were hoisted up by winches, through some 36 different trapdoors, brought to Rome on barges that sailed up the Nile, a labour-intensive and costly exercise if ever there was one..
The crypt contains the remains of over 3,500 bodies - it is believed that they were monks (friars) and their followers. Set out in six small chapels (all named after different body parts, including pelvises and leg bones) the skulls and bones you will see are not laid about randomly - on the contrary, they are put together in quite elaborate displays…
It’s rainy and chilly (but we have fires) and, unlike in summer, where we eat al fresco and splash around in the pool, under a scorching sun, now we’re curled up under blankets in the evening, after dinner, all gossiping and laughing. Lucretia - who’s incredibly good at drawing, baking and crafts - is building a gingerbread house, made out of pretzels, smarties and other treats. She’s not sure anyone will even want to eat it - but it looks fabulous…
We’re tired, for sure, and our feet are aching but as we pass Westminster, there’s a surge of enthusiasm from all eight of us - because we know that we can finally turn right at Lambeth Bridge, towards the Houses of Parliament! And then I stare at the next line of zigzags, which goes on as far as the eye can see. This is ‘soft security’ apparently and although I don’t realise it, it’s going to take us almost two hours to get through. ..
My fellow queuers have come from Ipswich, Cheltenham and Gloucester - they all awoke in the middle of the night and either drove or caught National Express buses to London. I am truly in awe of their dedication to this cause. But then, as we discuss, the Queen was dedicated to her job for seventy years and so what’s a day out of all of our lives, if it means showing some respect…
Fluorescent wristbands are being handed out in a range of colours (quite randomly). Mine is pink and a kindly volunteer attaches it for me. It will be the proof I need to remain in the queue, all the way to the Palace of Westminster - about 8kms. I may be asked to present it at various informal checkpoints along the way, although I can hardly imagine anyone would try do anything as un-British as trying to push in! After all, this is what we live for, isn’t it? Queuing. And, by any standards, this is the Queue to End All Queues.
by the evening, to my astonishment, Radio 4 is reporting that the queue to pay one’s respects is already 5 hours long, and stretching across Lambeth Bridge, back to the National Film Theatre on the South Bank, where wristbands to join it are being handed out. By 8am the following morning it has grown enormously and is now stretching back to Tower Bridge…
It’s hard to put into words how many flowers, drawings, cards, flags and letters I saw in London’s Green Park on the Monday following Queen Elizabeth’s death. Of course, sometimes a picture really does speak a thousand words. Here are some of the hundreds of tributes upon which I gazed, that sunny September afternoon…
As I walk into the grounds of Green Park, I am caught entirely off guard. I knew there would be floral tributes. But this? The park is awash, and I really do mean awash, with flowers.It is a veritable sea of gorgeous tributes…I walk from mound to mound, reading many of the childrens’ cards and staring at their drawings. I am incredibly touched at the words they have written.
In front of the gates, people are stopping, both to place flowers and also read some of the tributes that are there - cards and drawings - which will regularly be removed and taken next door to Green Park. There’s a copy of a newspaper stuck within the railings, a picture of the Queen on the front and a huge caption stating ‘Godspeed, Ma’am’. It seems very poignant and fitting.
There’s a sober mood on the streets of London. People are noticeably more quiet, more ‘withdrawn’ as I walk the streets of Whitechapel and Spitafields. Digital adverts at the London bus stops have been replaced with Elizabeth II’s image. There are notices in shop windows, edged in black, offering commiserations. Last night, at Piccadilly Circus, the famous electronic board that usually advertises big brands was illuminated with her image.
But this feels very different. This feels ‘personal’ and - in the days that follow - I will learn that millions of people around the country (and the world) feel as I do - that we really did like the Queen, admire the Queen, and have great respect for the Queen. The fact is that the most famous woman in the world (a brand bigger than Nike or Coca Cola), instantly recognisable with her smile and trademark handbag, diplomatic, discerning and also dazzling, is gone…
I then climb into bed and sleep, but only for a few hours. This will become the pattern for the coming weeks - when I do manage to sleep, it is brief, fitful, constantly interrupted. Despite my physical exhaustion, I’m waking almost every morning in the wee small hours with a start. For a split second, all is well with my world but then the horror of my situation hits me like a freight train.
And then - in the blink of an eye - it happens. Silence. I stare at his face, disbelieving, willing him to breathe just one more time. But the gasping has stopped. I reach over to take his pulse but can feel nothing. I call a nurse. She stands over him and does the same thing. “He’s gone, my love.” I cannot take the words in; I am not prepared for this moment. I stare at my father, whose eyes are closed but whose mouth has fallen open. He looks peaceful. Another one of the angels returns with a single red rose, which she places next to his pillow…
To my disbelief, she tells me that he’s deteriorating very fast and he may well die in the next hours or the following day. I look at her, incredulous. This fast? She reassures me that he’s definitely not in pain then breaks the news to me that he’s not sleeping - in fact, in the last hour he has actually slipped into unconsciousness. “It’s very likely now that he won’t open his eyes again, or respond to your hand squeezes.” I don’t believe her. I am convinced he will open his eyes one more time. There cannot be this little time left. There cannot be.
“Your father is dying.” The room spins. I am momentarily at a loss for words. It’s like being punched in the gut. A few moments pass. “How long do you think he has?” The kind doctor pauses, before answering. “Not long. A few days at most”. In my head, I remember that It’s Tuesday afternoon.
“Will he make it to the weekend?” “I don’t think that’s likely.” He is sombre but kind. Above me, there is a skylight and through it I hear a screeching sound.
“It’s the seagulls. They’ve built a nest on our roof.” I think to myself that my father would like that.
After I’ve left the hospital, I feel mentally drained. My mind is cast back to the book I first read in 2018, when my beloved grandmother was dying. Atul Gwande, who is the most extraordinary writer, penned a book entitled ‘Being Mortal - Medicine, Illness and What Really Matters in the End,” It had a profound impact on me back then and his words return to me now…
