THE QUEEN'S JUBILEE
- abbeyblloyd
- Sep 4
- 3 min read
In 2022, Queen Elizabeth II celebrated her Platinum Jubilee — that’s seventy years on the throne, in case you’d missed the bunting. The whole country was treated to a four-day bank holiday (cheers, Your Majesty) from Thursday 2nd to Sunday 5th June. At the time, I was based in London, still busy with interiors but sneaking into other areas of photography whenever I could. And really, when history comes parading down your street, how could I not grab my camera and dive in?
Most days leading up to the Jubilee — and during the celebrations themselves — I was wandering about central London with my sister’s Australian Shepherd, Kosi, in tow. She had those big, pleading eyes that made strangers stop in their tracks. Honestly, I think people only spoke to me so they could fuss over her. Fair enough — she’s far more photogenic than I am!
One early morning, around 5 a.m., Kosi and I found ourselves strolling along The Mall. That’s where I met one of the very first people to pitch a tent in anticipation of the big weekend. She was absolutely lovely, speaking with genuine warmth about the Queen — how Her Majesty had been a steady reassuring presence through all of our lives, for better or worse. She said that simply being able to come together as a nation and celebrate was a privilege in itself. And at that hour, with the city still half asleep, it felt remarkably profound.
Of course, it wasn’t all solemn reflection. Watching the parade rehearsals was a joy — the cavalry trotting about, guards perfecting their uniforms, officers lined up with dogs in tow. I even ended up chatting with a couple of reporters who, to my surprise, were also awake at such an ungodly hour. One of them joked that if I had the dedication to crawl out of bed that early just for photos, I might have the makings of a photojournalist. Then they cheerfully reminded me it’s a “dying trade” in the age of the smartphone. Encouraging stuff — thanks for that.
On the day itself, during the carriages and parade, I set up camp in Trafalgar Square. After a bit of shameless scrambling, I perched myself a couple of metres up the stone pillars outside Waterstones. (If anyone from Waterstones is reading this, apologies — but it was for art.) From that vantage point, I captured one of my favourite shots ever: a man who, instead of gazing expectantly at the Royal Family like everyone else, seemed to be staring straight back at me.
Once the carriages had passed, I climbed down and wandered along the river, eventually finding myself outside the Houses of Parliament. I walked across the green, past the bronze of Churchill mid-stride, and down Victoria Street just as the flypast began. The whole thing felt other-worldly — planes thundered overhead so low it seemed their bellies must have been brushing the rooftops. The roar and presence of those giants left me utterly speechless leaving me with a lingering feeling of how there was something both terrifyingly powerful and startlingly beautiful about it.
At the end of the day, I ducked into a small old pub tucked between buildings, where I rounded things off with a pint. An older gent asked if he could take the spare seat at my upright barrel table, and I happily obliged. Much like the patriotic woman camped out on The Mall, he spoke with glowing pride about the day’s events, reminiscing about jubilees he’d celebrated in his youth. By the time we parted ways, however, he’d also given me a detailed rundown of his favourite Indian takeaway in London (Unfortunately the name has since escaped me, so no recommendations this time!)
For a few shining days it felt as though the whole country had pulled together, the capital at its very best in all its colour and revelry. Its people — nay, the world — turned their eyes to London, not in stiff ceremony but in joyous celebration. The streets hummed with history and laughter alike, a reminder that when London decides to put on a show, it does so with a flair all its own.
-Abbey Broughton Lloyd
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