I don’t believe
in Weather Gods (even though I cover my bases by giving them Capital Letters).
The notion of some sky-based personage, chucking around lightning bolts and
thunder heads doesn’t really do it for me. But, on Friday, it was hard not to
think that there was some higher Norse power at work. Someone who had had a
particularly good sandwich or seen a really nice boxset and decided that, yes,
the weather has been completely awful for the past entire month, but Niamh and
Vincent have been so cool though it all, what the hey, let’s chuck ‘em a break.
In short,
the weather was glorious.
The venue
was glorious too. It was a lovely house by a lake, with a wedding pavilion, and
a boathouse wedding venue where the end wall was entirely made of glass and
looked out onto the lake. This is where those Weather Gods really started to
bring their stuff. The panels on this glazed end wall were slid entirely open and the
wonder of the lake itself became an integral part of the space. We all eased
in, in our black-tie regalia and our gowns and our shades and our fascinators
and, blow me down, we were one good-lookin’ collective.
A string
quartet of elegant ladies struck up the Monty Norman theme from you-know-where,
as the groom, Vincent, entered with customary style and grace. The Bride, on John’s
arm, was simply beautiful. The ceremony was conducted by a Humanist celebrant.
I lost that word for a moment just now and wrote the word ‘Naturist’ as a place
filler, but I rubbed it out again so don’t worry, clothes stayed on. The reading
were sourced from lovely places like Philip Pullman and Terry Pratchett and the
string quartet soared through timeless movements such as ‘Wrecking Ball’. One
extract from the readings mentioned dragonflies and this was illustrated by
real live dragonflies working the lake’s glassy surface out behind the wedding
party.
For me, I
think the highpoint of the ceremony was the exchanged vows, each of which had
been written for the other to read out and which had not been seen beforehand.
This brought the fun and warmth that one would always expect from this lovely couple,
but it also brought a memorable example of the levels of empathy and mutual
understanding they enjoy from each other. We, who had gathered to witness a
joining together, certainly witnessed it at that moment.
One of Niamh’s
closest friends Anita (her name is not really Anita) spoke movingly
about love and friendship and the string quartet played Deborah’s Theme. I can’t
speak for anyone else, but it was right up my street.
On a lakeside
lawn, after the ceremony, we drank Prosecco and Tom Collins (who I thought
was a local auctioneer, but we live and learn) and mingled and failed to
mingle in roughly equal measure. Peacocks wandered through and offered their
opinion. The Weather Gods continued to spray their benevolence in the most
pleasing of fashions.
The dinner
was brilliantly illustrated by Lisa, Niamh’s sister and one of my favourite
people in the entire world. The courses were punctuated by speeches, which were
all unerringly lovely. But Niamh’s Dad, John, was the first to totally win the room
with his natural and heartfelt memories of his wedded daughter and their wonderful
life to date. Vincent’s Dad had committed his entire contribution to rhyming verses
and, one felt, if he hadn’t done it, there would have been a level of disappointment
as he is well known for it. He did it right, never sacrificing a warm moment or
a good gag at the altar of the rhyme.
Meanwhile, the tables echoed with that wedding mix of extraordinary conversation. I sat with John from Texas, and we dissected the vagaries of the Irish roundabout road junction system. We reached some valuable conclusions, but it will require a measure of government action on our recommendations to see everything finally put right. A shout out, too, to lovely Helena, who reads this blog every week but would be equally lovely even if she didn't.
The band
were nifty and cool. The lead singer had an enviable falsetto that we all secretly
tried to copy and all secretly failed to varying degrees. They were inventive in their
setlists, typically mixing perennial Irish favourites with Cuban party vibes. The
necessary riff from ‘Wicked Game’ was provided by Falsetto Man on a tin
whistle. The dance floor strutted their appreciation.
The next day, we decamped to Niamh’s family home where Nimah's Mum and Dad, John and Marian, were the effortless hosts they always are, just, this time, on a considerably larger scale. John’s garden, a decade-spanning labour of love, had been waiting for this day all of its life, as mini-group after mini-group ambled its ways and marveled at its multi-sensory overload. That photo on top; that's his garden.
A wondrous
weekend, a couple well-and truly married. I wish them what I have been blessed enough
to have for myself, peace and love, health and companionship. I wish them
everything they wish themselves.
Regrets
from the day, the weekend, the wedding? There are always regrets. So many
wonderful people, so many loved ones. The day goes so quickly. There isn’t the
time to sit with everyone and tell them how darned good it is to see them. There
isn’t time to say we hope we see them again soon and to hope that all is okay with
them, out there in their real world.
We don’t
get to say it, but we get to think it all right. Hell, some of us even go and write
it down.
But then,
as we know, some of us are just plain weird.
No comments:
Post a Comment