A Septagarian's Wedding

PGS Old Boys with Neil in sling

Back in the 1970s and 1980s, weddings were regular events as the baby boomers, having had fun in the sixties, settled down with mortgages, children and debt ramped up by inflation. I was best man on five occasions for a school friend (Neil), university friends, a flatmate and my brother. This weekend was a party for Neil on his second wedding to his partner of twenty-five years. 

His children and his grandchildren were there along with old school friends and others that I had met over the years. It was a relaxed affair deep in the bucolic fringe of the Lake District at a house and garden straight out of central casting. The marquee, piper, casks of real ale, sparkling wines and the chance to play croquet or table tennis were available, but so were a spectacular array of canapés that were interlaced with conversations from far yonder. No presents had been stipulated in the invite, and dress code was whatever was comfortable, although my choice of jeans was probably a bit naff.

Neil and Jessica had got married at the registry office in Edinburgh City Chambers back in April. The party had been put off until summer, when an outdoor event in a marquee and the grounds of an eighteenth-century house would be more appealing. The only problem was that Neil had fallen down a ladder and broken his ribs and left elbow when painting windows. Neil had been a fearless rock climber and had never fallen when climbing to a high standard in the Alps, the Lake District and Scotland; I could vouch for that, having seconded him up many climbs that had scared the hell out of me.

Jessica's mother hosted the event at her house. It started at 12:30 pm. Neil's stepmother was there, along with a motley assembly of friends and distant relatives who had negotiated the maze of local roads to a location so remote, it was absent on most SatNavs. A nearby field was used for parking, and a handful of folk came on bikes. Neil and Jessica had met through cycling. 

The summer heatwave was finally over, and we were regaled by an artistic blue and white sky that induced a relaxed atmosphere, perfect for conversations that provided answers to life's journeys and secrets. I met a distant cousin of Neil, a retired Doctor from Herefordshire who had worked with the brother of an old girlfriend, whom I had climbed with in the Avon Gorge. I met a Pilates teacher who promised to provide me with exercises to improve flexibility after my hip operation, and met another of Neil's friends who had married a girl whom I had inadvertently introduced to Neil during our underage drinking days. An old school friend had just published an illustrated children's book; he was always a talented cartoonist and had been an amazing javelin thrower. Jessica's brother was over from Montreal with his family and had 2 days before his flight home. He was taking his boys to Glencoe to climb Buachaille Etive Mor; I was able to show them photographs of the treat they had in store.

I chatted to Neil's children, in their forties now, and probably revealed some episodes from Neil's past. I was asked by many about Ian, Neil's older brother and also a good friend who had sadly died in his mid-twenties after a badly executed operation. Neil and I had scattered his ashes on Scafell Pike on a miserable December day before drinking away our sorrow in an Ambleside pub. 

There was some dancing to music requested by the guests. The bubbly and casks of local ale kept people talking, and it was a buffet, so people rotated, shared stories and found common ground. It worked; by 6pm people were drifting off to nether regions. I reflected on the way home that I had been to four funerals and a wedding in the past twelve months; it's a baby boomer's thing.  A film waiting to be made, perhaps?

Fit for a wedding

The setting