I gazed across the room and recalled how different the atmosphere was in there a couple of nights ago.
Elvis was getting changed in a kitchen behind the bar, while a small crowd of holidaymakers bubbled with anticipation. Lights twinkled on stage at our Lanzarote holiday resort, in the Canaries.
The rather mature-looking, grey-haired gentleman in shorts who slipped into the kitchen earlier now reappeared, having undergone a spangly transformation. He was Elvis, picking his way past bartenders pulling pints in his full Las Vegas regalia – classic slicked-back black wig, sunglasses and white gem-studded outfit.
The tribute show began and his hits pounded out for the next couple of hours.
Now it was morning, things felt different. The resort clubhouse was the hub for everything from food to entertainment. At this time of day, breakfasts were the stars of the show, with countless fry-ups being carried from the kitchen, following the same path Elvis had trod.
I sensed the atmosphere was a little subdued and quieter than normal. There was even a temporary truce in the perpetual Game of Towels to conquer sunbed territory.
People shuffled in, looking as though they were not sure what to do. The Queen’s funeral was about to start, and a little piece of Britain, 2,000 miles from home in Scotland, was being created, smack-bang in the middle of a forest of towering, swaying palm trees. It would have made Her Majesty proud – and what happened next brought tears to my eyes.
A solemn occasion in the sunshine
Something else was different about everyone. Shorts, flip-flops and bright tops were normally the order of the day there by the pool. Now, it dawned on me that nearly everyone was wearing something black out of respect for this solemn occasion. Mostly black tops – lacy numbers for some of the women, plain T-shirts for the men.
It struck me how these sensitive and thoughtful souls must have packed the black items away before flying out. How did they manage it? We could barely make the luggage weight for our Jet2 flight as it was, without sitting on the cases to zip them up.
Television screens were dotted about and, normally, holidaymakers’ eyes would be glued non-stop to football or classic hits all day long. Now all three screens were synchronised to the Queen’s coffin being pulled by Royal Navy ratings to Westminster Abbey.
I stared down and felt uncomfortable – and it wasn’t due to the takeaway bacon rolls I was clutching. No, it was my clothing.
300 parrots by the pool
I was adorned in a loud, candy-stripe, short-sleeve shirt and peach-coloured shorts – not appropriate at all. It was time to scuttle back to our villa to give my wife an update. We decided it was only right to join in.
My wife had a black swimsuit and sarong, but what about me? My range of garish holiday shirts made me look like a strutting peacock. But my eyes came to rest on something that I might just get away with – a shirt in dark navy, which looked black from a distance. I put it on straight away.
I don’t think anyone minded the parrots being at our respectful little gathering. We were a sartorial mish-mash
The only drawback was that there were at least 300 red and yellow parrots woven into it. I know this because I counted them, and got to 144 parrot shapes on the back of the shirt alone before giving up.
I don’t think anyone minded the parrots being at our respectful little gathering. We were a sartorial mish-mash – none of us would have got into Westminster Abbey, but it was the thought that counted.
Some royals inspire great respect
By the time I returned, the group had grown to around 60, as the funeral service began – silent, respectful, tearful. A man comforted his wife with an arm around her shoulder, others draped their tables with union flags.
It occurred to me once more that a lot of this was down to personal respect for the Queen, as opposed to the institution or other royals. What else would inspire ordinary people to worship fabulously rich aristocrats who live in a completely different world?
It’s the common touch – the Queen had it, Diana too. William and Kate also look like dab hands. The Earl of Wessex didn’t have it, though, during his cringeworthy walkabout outside Buckingham Palace – he appeared to spend more time trying to avoid shaking hands with the great unwashed. A mum with her young daughter in the queue spluttered a shocked “oh!” as their eager, outstretched hands were arrogantly spurned.
King Charles must hope some of the late Queen’s magic rubs off on him to avoid public approval waning.
After the service, we had a dip in the pool. A rousing rendition of God Save the King rang out from the clubhouse – my wife stopped swimming, stood up and joined in. It was surreal, yet touching.
David Knight is the long-serving former deputy editor of The Press and Journal
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