What's a Wedstival?

“How do you make a marriage work?  Tell your wife that she looks pretty, even if she looks like a truck” – Ricky, Age 10

My beloved niece Emma and her boyfriend Cian announced some time ago that they were going to get married this summer, in a super cool wedding.  There would be a hand fastening ceremony, where a rope is wound around the joined hands of the couple, until they’re more or less lashed together, appropriately enough. His Nibs and I often look at each other in disbelief that we tied ourselves together in the legal sense.  I’d never seen anyone physically do so before.

Emma and Cian would go to the registry office a couple of days after the ceremony and have a civil ceremony, with witnesses only.

I was recently informed that weddings of this description are known as wedstivals –something between a wedding and a festival. 

His Nibs was very confused when the invitation arrived, because there would be no signing anything.  I think he felt a bit put out.  He’d had to put paper to pen at our wedding, I think he thought Cian was getting away with something.

“So are they hippies?”

“No.  Well, maybe they are.  I don’t know.  Does it matter?  You don’t have to wear a suit.”

 “It’s not a real wedding if there’s no registrar there.”

“They’re going to the registry office on the Tuesday, to get legally married, but they’re getting married on Saturday.”

“Love, they’re not.  They’re actually getting married on the Tuesday.”

“No, they’re getting married on the Saturday.  Why are we arguing about this?”

But argue he did.  On and on about whether this was a wedding or not.  Eventually I had to fight dirty.

 “Listen, do you remember when we got married?  What was more important to you, promising to love each other, or signing the register?  Which of those things makes you more married?”

His Nibs is not such an eejit that he would suggest to me that we are married only because we are contractually bound to it.

“The promises” – this was said in a sulky tone which told me that he knew he was beaten.

“Right.  So the important bit is on the Saturday.  You’re not allowed to wear your Crocs.”

I thrashed myself about a bit, confused about how to dress for a casual wedding. I knew Emma had a stunning wedding dress.  I didn’t want to turn up in jeans if everyone else was dressed up.  On the other hand, it was a fairly hippie affair.  I didn’t want to look uptight and prissy.  I was a fool to think about it so much.  Because this was the wedding where you could wear literally anything you wanted, and nobody would bat an eyelid. 

We took our seats in front of an arch with billowing fabric around it.  The wedding invitation had clearly stated that the ceremony would be at three.  When we got there we were informed that the other pair had gotten confused, and thought it was at half three.  When I say the other pair, I'm referring to Emma and Cian.  They'd forgotten the time of their own wedding.  We took our seats and waited.  Three o'clock came and went. So did half past three.  Apparently they were looking for their sunglasses, though this is unconfirmed.  Eventually, eight people came strolling up the garden, toward the arch, and took their places.  One girl in a gorgeous dress you could wear to a society wedding, Fiachra, the groom’s brother, in bare feet.  It was almost unbearably cool.  I was jealous of their youth and their nonchalant fabulousness. 

When the bride and groom came strolling along, holding hands, there was a standing ovation and some very excited cheering.  I liked that.  Why only clap after people get married?  It takes a lot of work to organise a wedding, brides and grooms deserve a cheer for even getting there. 

Next, each of the original eight stepped forward in turn and read a quote, I’ll give you an example; “I will love you forever, whatever happens, till I die and after I die..” and so on, then asked the happy couple to make a promise related to the quote, like to always love each other.

And of course, the poor innocent eejits, they promised.  When you’re there in your lovely dress and everyone is cheering you and there’s a party on for you, it’s easy to forget that you will feel no love for this person when they use up the last of the milk, or you step on a dirty underpants on the bedroom floor.  Or maybe that’s just us.

It was all so romantic that I was able to push away my thoughts of Emma and Cian turning to each other when the toilet seat is left up for the millionth time or there’s no money left, or they’re just irritating each other so much they can’t be in the same room, and wondering about the fact that they once chose to physically tie themselves together.

It was a lovely wedding.  I shed a tear, I might as well admit. When Emma’s three year old son handed the rings to his aunt he got the second standing ovation of the day.  When the groom kissed the bride we all became almost hysterical with joy.

A strange thing, the joy created by a newly married man kissing his bride. I would never usually cheer or clap at the sight of one of my nieces being soundly snogged.  But I was delighted for them.

After they were untied, (more cynical thoughts, along the lines of “if only it was that simple in real life” pushed away) there was a great celebration with barbecue and drink and music, and since this was happening in a private garden in the middle of the country, miles from the nearest hotel, camping.

The whole place was filled with bubbles and bunting and balloons and small children running around.  We all sat around in the sun chatting and taking pictures and drinking, and then we were directed to the house, where there was tasty salads and roast meats and crusty bread , and lovely  gourmet burgers on the barbecue outside.  It was a sumptuous feast, and absolutely perfect food for a crowd of people who would do little but drink for the rest of the day.

At some point, as the day stretched into evening, someone reminded Emma that we still hadn’t heard the speeches.  “Oh yeah.” She shrugged.  “I forgot about that.  Oh well.”  If they were any more laid back they'd be in a coma.

Eventually it got cold.  Cian lit firepits and garden candles, and the massive bunch of balloons in the middle of the garden had LED lights in each one and they glowed in the dark.  The place was filled with fairy lights, even the tents in the camping area were festooned.

You can only imagine my relief when I found out that Emma and Cian are so normal.  When instead of being little lovesick fairies in a land of bubbles and flowers, it turns out, that he’ll make a holy show of her without batting an eyelid.  In the run up to the wedding, he had become obsessed with the weather forecast.  So obsessed, in fact, that he knew the times of expected showers, to within ten minutes.  And he kept telling everyone he met these details.  Emma said he’d make a trainspotter look fascinating, going on about it.

His Nibs and I didn’t stay the night.  I’m unreasonable when it comes to tents.  I tend to wake up a lot during the night and moan that the ground is hard or I’m cold or that I’m not happy having only a sheet of thin fabric between me and potential predators.  Yes, even in Waterford.  I wake His Nibs every time, so he’s like a savage by morning.  Also, I knew he’d be very unreasonable about being woken up by other people’s singsongs in the middle of the night. 

But I was sorry to leave.  I felt that every aspect of the wedding had gone incredibly well. I could have done without the part where I fell in the only dip in the entire garden and bruised my knees and my pride and showed my industrial strength undies to the group, but sure what harm?

Yesterday, they had an appointment to go to the registry office and get legally married.  At some point, the mother of the bride asked when they were going to get ready, and what everyone was wearing.  There would be no getting ready, she was informed, they were going as they were.  As far as they were concerned they’d been married since Saturday and this was only form filling.  So they went as they were and got married in the eyes of the State.  And then they all went for burritos.

At no stage was I, nor will I ever be, as cool as them.  If that’s what a hippie is, I sorely wish I was one.