The Tower of London

Invasion of England was accomplished by tunnel. The chief resistance we encountered was from French and English immigration staff at the Gare du Nord. For our Eurostar Standard class seats we had paid an extortionate price through the Australian agents which we wouldn’t have had to pay had we been able to deal directly with Eurostar. It reminded Megan of the Intercity to Newcastle; I have to say I prefer travelling in first class, as we did all over the continent, if only because the rude people one encounters are better dressed.

Our little eyrie at Tower Hill is a two-floor flat perched on the fourth and fifth floors of a 1920s building a short walk from the Tower of London. The lower floor is a comfortable living room and kitchen (with a washer/dryer that actually works). Up the spiral staircase (now adorned with a week’s washing) to our bedroom, sitting room and bathroom. Small, but comfortable. For our groceries we have a choice of Tesco on Eastcheap, Sainsbury’s on Fenchurch Street or Waitrose at St Katherine Docks. We prefer the latter because we can stop for a coffee at one of the zillion cafés or restaurants on the docks, which when the sun is shining reminds me of Cronulla or Sydney Harbour.

After dinner on Wednesday night we went for a walk around the manor, seeking out Crutched Friars (another Dornford Yates location), having a half at the East India Arms (a nice little pub outside Lloyds on Fenchurch Street) and looking at Tower and London Bridges from Tower Dock. I love the long twilights at these latitudes.

Thursday morning we took our lives in our hands to face the millions of tourists that have descended upon London for the Royal Wedding. Actually, they haven’t. The town has been fairly quiet for most of the week, because the predicted multitudes haven’t turned up, and many of the locals have taken Tuesday to Thursday off so they could have a ten day break from Good Friday to May Day.

We strolled over to the Tower just before 9 am and joined the brief ticket queue. Wandering quite freely through the Tower precincts we wondered where all the stories came from about queuing for hours for the Crown Jewels. We’re sure it happens, because at the front of and inside the building were cattle runs, with video displays to entertain the bored and anxious masses. But we just walked straight through.

I have to say, the Crown Jewels are impressive. Maces, trumpets, plate galore. You move past the crowns themselves on a travelator, and the reflections from the jewels change as you go. The Cullinan and Koh-i-noor diamonds are literally dazzling. The place must be the most heavily secured outside the Bank of England, but it doesn’t feel like it.



We had a close encounter with a raven, who entertained us by making some unusual vocalisations then destroying the turf in search of grubs. Smart bird. Another refused to be photographed, turning his back to me and saying ‘Nevermore.’

It is strange to see places like the Traitors’ Gate and the Scaffold Site on the Tower Green: places I’ve read so much about for so long, where so much happened, and where there should be so many ghosts, but aren’t. Many places have a weird feeling about them; at Sachsenhausen you know something unspeakable happened as soon as you walk into the place. Tears don’t leave a mark on a place as much as pain.

If you come to the Tower make a point of visiting the Museum of the Royal Fusiliers. It is one of the best-presented exhibits on the site, with displays for most of their campaigns, from the American Revolutionary War through Crimea and the twentieth century to Iraq. One room is dedicated to decorations: cases of them, including twelve Victoria Crosses in a row.

The White Tower, the big building in the middle, is old and impressive, but the exhibits are a bit tiring. Here you can see the armour of Henry VIII, Edward VI, and Charles I, whose gorget looks a little battered. (No it doesn’t.) Knives, guns, projectiles, you name it, it’s here. And then there is a display on the history of the White Tower which really doesn’t make much point. The touch-and-feel exhibits were much better at Azincourt. Not enough thought, or the wrong thought, has gone into how these things are displayed. The simplicity of St John’s Chapel in one of the corners of the tower comes as a relief.



Earlier this evening we returned to the Tower for the Ceremony of the Keys. This is the formal locking of the gates of the Tower, and has happened every night for over seven hundred years. We were part of a group of about thirty people who were met at the main gate by the sole female Yeoman Warder (or Beefeater), who took us into the Tower and explained what was about to happen. For centuries the gates were locked at dusk, until 1826 when the Constable of the Tower, Arthur Wellesley (who invented a type of boot in Spain or something) ordered that the locking take place at 10pm, on the grounds that dusk in winter could be as early as 3pm.

We stood in silence at the Traitor’s Gate and waited for the Ceremony to begin. At seven minutes to ten we saw a brass lantern bobbing in the darkness along Water Lane; the Chief Yeoman Warder was approaching with the keys. He was met at the Bloody Tower by an armed military guard (the soldiers with bearskin hats), and together they returned up the lane to lock the gates. Their footsteps faded away; there were faint shouts as the gates were locked and arms presented. When the party returned to where we were, the sentry on duty under the Watergate advanced with pointed gun and challenged them.

Sentry: Halt, who comes there?
Chief Yeoman Warder: The keys.
Sentry: Whose keys?
Chief Yeoman Warder: Queen Elizabeth’s keys.
Sentry: Pass then, all is well.

The party walked under the Bloody Tower into the laneway by the White Tower, and we followed. Another military guard was standing with a bugler at the top of the steps. They presented arms, the Chief Yeoman Warder presented the keys to the Resident Governor and called out ‘God preserve Queen Elizabeth’. To which everyone present replied loudly, ‘Amen!’ (as previously instructed). The bugler played the Last Post, the Resident Governor returned to his residence in the Queen’s House, and the guard returned to the guardhouse. The Tower was secured for the night, and the Warder escorted us to the postern gate.