We ran the whole gamut of emotions here in the farmhouse last week, as we prepared for my daughter’s wedding reception here on the farm. Even in this big rambling house, we were packed out with guests staying over for this joyous celebration.
Thankfully everything went well. Our popular local lady vicar presided over a beautiful and personal ceremony in the village, and when the bride and groom were pronounced husband and wife a loud cheer went up from the balcony full of young Londoners and Aberystwyth University alumni. It was such a boisterous cheer accompanied with loud clapping that I fancied the old church shook from the shockingly large sound waves, but thankfully our good-natured priest did not bat an eyelid. The three year-old flower girl was impeccably behaved, and the youngest member of the congregation, a four month old baby boy, slept peacefully through the proceedings.
As soon as we had posed for the photos, Shropshire Farmer shot off on a mercy mission to check on the posh toilets, which to our horror had failed to work properly the night before. Townie Wife kept her fingers crossed that 115 guests would not be forced to walk through the farmhouse kitchen to spend a penny. It would have been an unseemly contrast between the immaculately decorated and neatly arranged marquee, and our personal quarters, which looked like the aftermath of a nuclear explosion. Thankfully, the Posh Potties performed their duties, and we were spared the shame of public humiliation.
Blot on the landscape
I did notice a tiny flaw in the landscape as I looked out of the marquee windows, while tucking into the wedding breakfast. It was our king-sized duvet, which I had forgotten to take off the washing line; but it was far enough away to blend unnoticed into the stunning scenery.
At midnight there was another mildly worrying moment, when two of the aforementioned alumni stripped down to their boxers and donned black bin bags on the dance floor. Townie Wife was worried that some of the older generation might frown upon such silliness, but instead of shaking their heads in disapproval, the grandmas hit the dance floor too.