Ship Aground In Westfield Sound! (3 June 1978)

I am writing on June 2, and moisture is running down my neck.  The moisture is sweat – or perspiration, if you are lah-di-dah – and it is caused not by the effort of typing, but by the heat and humidity of the weather.  So very different from the weather on June 2 twenty-five years ago, when the Queen was crowned.  On that day also moisture ran down all our necks, but that was rain, which fell on and off all day, accompanied by a strong and chilly breeze.

The weather was like that all over the country.  Some in the coronation crowds in London who had been there all night or from early morning were soaked to the skin.  But sunshine was brought to the procession itself by the Queen of Tonga, who came from the balm of her Pacific island and rode in an open carriage, beaming and waving to the cheering onlookers like she hadn’t noticed the difference, nor the water which no doubt was dribbling down her neck and ample bosom.

Bletchley began the day with a clang – an unsuccessful attempt to ring a full three-hour peal by St. Mary’s ringers.  It began shortly after five o’clock, but broke down somewhere between six and seven.  Later on, St. Martin’s ringers had better luck with a less ambitious programme.

Apart from that the town had a very quiet morning.  There was hardly a soul in the streets while the coronation proceedings were in progress in the capital.  This was due to television.  At that date the majority of people did not have a television set, but it is marvellous what a fascination these royal events have for women and all those who did not have a telly disappeared for the morning in the houses of neighbours who did.  It is said that the coronation led to the subsequent boom in television sales like no other cause.  For lunch I got home to a stew that had been left simmering for hours, but which was none the worse for that, of course.

The town woke up in the afternoon.  There had been no need for anybody to tell the people what to do or how to celebrate.  They had decided that for themselves long before.  Practically ever since the Queen’s accession there had been a spontaneous springing-up of street groups, each with the object of having its very own right good do for the coronation.  This meant street parties for the kids and everybody else.

There were over 40 such parties in Bletchley alone.  The weather failed to dampen the spirits of those taking part.  Flags and bunting flew almost everywhere.  An enormous quantity of food and drink was consumed.  Much of the food was home-made.  Even so, the Co-op bakery alone disposed of 25,000 queen cakes.  Those with a taste for odd statistics or statistical oddities were regaled with the information that these little cakes, if placed end to end, would have stretched from the old council offices to “halfway” along Buckingham Road,” wherever that might be.

I covered my share of those parties, but council chairman Ernest Fryer managed to visit nearly all of them, chauffeured by council member Ron Staniford.  The chairman’s message to the groups was short and simple: “Our Queen has dedicated her life to her people.  We in Bletchley can, in turn, dedicate ourselves to making the township a better place.”

The weather became worse as the day went on and some groups finished their particular celebrations by merging into local halls.

After the street parties came the town-organised part of the proceedings.  The feature of this was a parade of decorated vehicles round the main streets, linking up with a fancy dress parade for the last stretch, which was to Bletchley Park.

This was no weather for such outings, but the participants ploughed on regardless.  Nevertheless, the scantily-clad sports youngsters on one float were decidedly envious of a “featherbed farmer” on another, for all he had to do in a squall was to dive under the bedclothes.

One entry failed to rendezvous at all.  This was a galleon designed and navigated by Mr. Douglas Cowlishaw, whose entries have brightened a number of parades from time to time.  The 15 foot high galleon sailed proudly along for about a quarter of a mile – an impressive sight.  But alas, as she was passing Westfield Sound, one of the strongest gusts dismasted her and rigging and all came toppling down irremediably.  Still, we knew what happened to other galleons in another Elizabethan Age, didn’t we?

The prizes were presented at the park, but the outdoor events planned for later than evening had to be cancelled.  And that was virtually the end of the town-organised part of the celebrations.

Another outdoor event planned for the very start did not take place either.  The drive for a swimpool for the town was on.  It was intended to be a Coronation Pool, and it was also intended to cut the first sod on Coronation Day, but this was deferred.  So when it finally came to pass, it was called Queen’s Pool instead.

There was one part of the town which did not celebrate as a group on Coronation Day.  This was the Saints Estate, which was then only half built.  Many of the people there had been in the town only a few months and were going back to The Smoke for that day – as would be only natural, I suppose.

They decided to have their Bletchley celebration on the following Saturday instead.  Alack! The weather on that day was no better.  All I remember of it is a piano standing in St. John’s Road and a sing-song and “knees up” being held around it – all in the rain.

Twenty five years!  It doesn’t seem all that long, until you realise that most of the schoolchildren who celebrated are now aged over 30 and have children of their own.  On the Saints Estate the third generation is coming along.  The first generation were ex-London (mainly).  The second generation are of Bletchley.  The third will be of Milton Keynes.  Even the name of the school is to be changed.  What next?