This London icon holds the legislative body of the United Kingdom on the banks of the Thames River. The famous Big Ben is on the right side.
Showing posts with label United Kingdom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label United Kingdom. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Photo of the Week: Parliament and Big Ben
This London icon holds the legislative body of the United Kingdom on the banks of the Thames River. The famous Big Ben is on the right side.
Monday, November 24, 2008
England's Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace
The changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace in London is one of those things you simply have to see, or so I was told.
A fine English tradition, I looked forward to seeing the Redcoats march in unison, their smart movements showcasing the discipline that helped Great Britain rule an Emprire spanning the globe.
At the tail end of my first trip to Europe, I was in London on an overcast day, and the changing of the guard was the only thing on my list until jumping on the Tube to Heathrow for the flight home.
Approaching Buckingham Palace, I joined the crowd massing in front of the black wrought-iron fence.
I smiled as I saw the sea of red flooding the courtyard, with mounted police and soldiers milling around the outside. Squeezing into a spot between two Brits, I could barely hear the voice of the officer shouting commands.
Soldiers milled around, and a pair walked along the edge of the group, chatting with each other out of the corners of their mouths.
At one point, as I waited for the show to start, a short, elderly woman clad in black strode through the crowd.
“I do believe that was the Queen,” said a guy to my right.
Unable to resist, I asked him, in my best English accent, “What makes ya say that?”
“Well, she was short,” he replied.
It was all I could do not to laugh, but I carried on. “Sure, she’s short, but that doesn’t mean she’s the bloody Queen,” I said.
“Yeah, that’s true,” he said.
I figured that if she had been the Queen of England, she wouldn’t have been walking alone through the changing of the guard ceremony. Then again, I can’t think of too many women who could just wantonly stroll through it, either.
It seemed that the ceremony was over before it started. I don’t know if I blinked or missed it while I was pretending to be a local, but I never saw anything overly formal. The same pair of soldiers still strolled along the outskirts continuing their conversation, and the mounted Bobby blew his whistle at someone trying to climb up the fence for a better look.
The mass of Redcoats marched away, leaving only the guards in their shacks, who would stand in that position until they couldn’t handle it anymore, then go through the comical exercise routine that they’re supposed to do.
For me, the changing of the guard came as something of a letdown. I wanted to see a huge production, but then again, they have to do it every day. Seeing that many soldiers wearing the classic uniforms was cool, and it was a notch in my belt, so to speak, but it wasn’t what it was hyped up to be.
A fine English tradition, I looked forward to seeing the Redcoats march in unison, their smart movements showcasing the discipline that helped Great Britain rule an Emprire spanning the globe.
At the tail end of my first trip to Europe, I was in London on an overcast day, and the changing of the guard was the only thing on my list until jumping on the Tube to Heathrow for the flight home.
Approaching Buckingham Palace, I joined the crowd massing in front of the black wrought-iron fence.
I smiled as I saw the sea of red flooding the courtyard, with mounted police and soldiers milling around the outside. Squeezing into a spot between two Brits, I could barely hear the voice of the officer shouting commands.
Soldiers milled around, and a pair walked along the edge of the group, chatting with each other out of the corners of their mouths.At one point, as I waited for the show to start, a short, elderly woman clad in black strode through the crowd.
“I do believe that was the Queen,” said a guy to my right.
Unable to resist, I asked him, in my best English accent, “What makes ya say that?”
“Well, she was short,” he replied.
It was all I could do not to laugh, but I carried on. “Sure, she’s short, but that doesn’t mean she’s the bloody Queen,” I said.
“Yeah, that’s true,” he said.
I figured that if she had been the Queen of England, she wouldn’t have been walking alone through the changing of the guard ceremony. Then again, I can’t think of too many women who could just wantonly stroll through it, either.
It seemed that the ceremony was over before it started. I don’t know if I blinked or missed it while I was pretending to be a local, but I never saw anything overly formal. The same pair of soldiers still strolled along the outskirts continuing their conversation, and the mounted Bobby blew his whistle at someone trying to climb up the fence for a better look.
The mass of Redcoats marched away, leaving only the guards in their shacks, who would stand in that position until they couldn’t handle it anymore, then go through the comical exercise routine that they’re supposed to do.
For me, the changing of the guard came as something of a letdown. I wanted to see a huge production, but then again, they have to do it every day. Seeing that many soldiers wearing the classic uniforms was cool, and it was a notch in my belt, so to speak, but it wasn’t what it was hyped up to be.
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