Jonny McCambridge: Momentous days in Royal Hillsborough

My wife was pregnant at the time and we lived in a small terrace in east Belfast. We liked the area and the neighbours, but with a child on the way we wanted somewhere with a bit more space, a garden to play in.

And so, we began the process of house-hunting.

After a long and difficult search, we settled on a pretty little semi on the outskirts of Hillsborough. There seemed to be several advantages. The house was in a small development surrounded by fields so had some rural charm. But it was also within walking distance of the village in one direction and only a couple of miles from a shopping centre in the other.

Furthermore, we were close to the A1 road which offered us quick access (traffic permitting) to the main route to both Belfast and Dublin, an important consideration for our work.

Over the years we’ve had a fair amount of good-natured ribbing from friends about having a ‘posh’ address but we have never regretted the transaction nor entertained any thought of moving on. My son has never known any other address and his social circle is centred around the village. When I have some rare time to myself, I can often be found daydreaming while sipping a coffee in one of the Hillsborough cafes.

For someone who spends so much time in the volatile and erratic news environment, it provides some succour to live in a place where the pace of life is a bit more relaxed.

Last Thursday, while working from home, I found myself walking countless times back and forth between my desk in the kitchen and the television in the front room, while waiting for news on the health of the Queen. There was a bit of nervous anticipation at the scale of the story which now seemed certain to unfold.

There are rare events which are so momentous they briefly seem to threaten to destabilise our accepted order of things, such as the death of Princess Diana, or the 9/11 attacks. The scale of what is happening can briefly destabilise the composure even the most experienced of journalists.

But the job is to get on with things, whatever the circumstance. The news of the Queen’s death was confirmed, and I took to the task of gathering reaction and filing stories.

Because of where I live it was always likely that I would be quickly dispatched to Hillsborough Castle, the natural point of focus for grief at the death of the monarch in Northern Ireland. Soon, I was in the car.

I was one of the first journalists to arrive at the large and imposing gold and black castle gates. A small number of floral tributes had already been left, including some purple flowers fashioned into the shape of a crown. A simple white card read ‘The heart of the world is broken’.

Persistent rain fell as I unpacked my video gear and interviewed Sir Jeffrey Donaldson and Doug Beattie. Then I spoke with a young woman who had tears in her eyes as she told me that she felt as if she had lost a member of her own family.

Soon a larger crowd gathered, many huddling together under umbrellas as the rain became heavier, the weather reflecting the solemn mood. Drops ran down my face and the back of my shirt as I took photographs.

The next morning the scale of the security operation which was soon to overtake the village emerged as I took my son to school. Some roads had been closed and a one-way traffic system had been introduced. We had some spare time, so we strolled up towards the castle, where we had to undergo airport-style checks.

In the early morning there was just one family there, a father with his two children. I recognised the man from the village, and he agreed to be interviewed and posed for photographs, explaining how important the Queen had been in his life.

I left my son at school, filed my story and returned to the castle. This time I was given access to the grounds for a 96-round gun salute, one round for each year of the Queen’s life.

I set up my video camera. A man in a military uniform passed me set of ear plugs.

‘You’d better wear these,’ he whispered.

The three cannons began to fire, the pungent smell of the ammunition filled the air. Even with the ear plugs inserted, I soon felt a slight ringing in my ears.

I made it home late in the day, tired and ready for bed. The photographs I had filed in the morning of the family at the castle gates had been widely used on news websites.

The father had tracked me down on social media and sent a message.

It read: ‘I would like to thank you for taking the photographs of our kids. It is a very sad time, but your act of kindness will be forever cherished by my family.’

Saturday is usually a day of rest, but there was no rest in this new news environment. I went to the village early to get the papers and found that the police had erected cones and barriers along the streets. Security sweeps were being carried out and bushes were being searched with long sticks.

I travelled to the Eikon Centre in the nearby Balmoral site to pick up the media accreditation which was now required to get to the castle. A shuttle bus took me back to the village.

I was drawn back to the sea of floral tributes at the gates. There were several hundred bouquets there now, carpeting the tarmac and lawn. It was a beautiful day and the flowers created a kaleidoscope of colours in the sun.

I spoke to some people and detected a different tone. There was still plenty of sadness and reflection, but there were also smiles and even a few shared jokes of comfort. People were beginning to look to the future.

It is later now I am home again, filing more stories. I am aware of the familiar oppressive burden of pressure. I have little skill for multitasking. It is a defect in my character that when I am working hard, I cannot find room for other things. I can neglect family and friends; sometimes I even forget to eat.

I sit up with a start as I remember that tomorrow is my wedding anniversary. Thirteen years married. I am not duty-bound to mark it, but I want to. I am annoyed that I have left it so late to buy a gift.

But I am lucky in that I live close to Royal Hillsborough. I drive to the Centra and search for a bunch of flowers. There are none.

Then I drive to the Spar. There are no flowers here either. Then I go to the Co-op, but still cannot find flowers. My brain is not working as it should.

‘Where are all the flowers?’ I ask the youth behind the counter.

He stares at me.