My friend came from Paris with her daughter, my goddaughter. They brought forward their visit to ensure they had time to complete the journey to the lying-in-state. Many others came in twos and threes, and some were alone; and here and there, we saw larger groups but could not tell if they were not simply smaller groups coalesced together.

We all soon became friends with those around us, bonding to make up a river of people flowing to Westminster Hall. Now and then, the path of the river meandered into organised zigzags and collected into lakes of people. Then, we could see those who are hours ahead of us and those who are hours behind. Every ethnicity was represented. Most were dressed for a special occasion, in black for mourning, in uniforms, in national costumes, and Sunday bests.

There was an African lady whose knee gave her pain with every step. There was a mother with her teenage children and their friend. We shared sweets and biscuits with a mother and daughter from Gloucester. They were an accountant and a dental nurse, but whatever our professions and statuses, on that journey, they were all left behind.

The Queen meant something different to everyone present. For me, she stood for constancy in a shapeless world. Even over the years of my adult life, everything had changed. Looking further back to the year of her coronation,  there are now three people for every one who lived then. Our language, customs, and even faith have changed during this time. The words that would have been used  to congratulate her at her coronation could easily give offense today. In these intervening years, microchips, genetic engineering, investment finance, digital media are only a few of the things that brought us prosperity, and contributed also to our increasing inequality. Life is so much more complex. It is impossible to tread without the appearance of prejudice and privilege, yet she moved through it as a wealthy person without wealth. Her annual speeches understood the compromises we make daily between work and family. She empathised with the pain of troublesome youngsters bringing public shame and the devastation of fairy tale endings crumbling into dust. Her annus horribilis spoke to us of things we all know too well – that those years will always come and go.

Grief found a new emotion in that river of people – joy. It contradicted the cynicism we are constantly told about people today. In our simple act of joining and forming that river of people, through the momentary silences and shared reflections, we came together from everywhere to show we care.

We spoke about many things on that journey. We talked about the changing world, our lives, and even politics. We talked about climate change.  “Of course it is up to people to make the difference,” the mother and daughter we walked with said resoundingly.  People will come together. It will not be governments or businesses.

I have watched the lying-in-state since on TV, and the images of it cannot capture what it was truly like to be part of that river. They simply do not show just how much people can still genuinely care. We cared for more than a moment of history,  we cared for more than paying respect.  It was a transformational journey. Each of us who were a part of it left renewed.

We came and formed a river of people, and it charged us with renewed hope.