The Heathens Disport Themselves
The plane trip over was nightmarish, and had me vowing to use the ferry next time. Every time I fly it seems that security has become more elaborate, ludicrous and humiliating; this journey's innovation was a photograph taken at the start of the security process. This is checked against the traveller's face at the boarding gate, presumably to ensure that you haven't changed shape during the long, tortuous journey from the shopping area at Heathrow terminal 1 to the shopping area at the boarding gate. Taking into account the time taken to get to Heathrow and the time spent hanging around before boarding (not to mention the hour stuck on the tarmac before takeoff), the twelve hour train/ferry journey I remember from years ago looks increasingly appealing.
The wedding itself was extremely entertaining, and had me thinking interesting thoughts about religion The bride was a protestant, so the wedding was in the pretty little Victorian Gothic Church of Ireland church, rather than the barn-like fifties modern Catholic one down the road, and was jointly held by the protestant minister ("call me Jim"; a former Catholic priest who left to get married) and the Catholic priest ("father Jimmy"). Several of the cousins, born and brought up in the area, were wandering about the church, fascinated by finally seeing inside a building they had passed several times a day for much of their lives. The bride's party also featured a number of Presbyterians specially shipped down from Belfast, but apart from one crack about Ian Paisley in the best man's speech that was greeted by a split second of silence before everyone laughed, there was no trace of rancour or unpleasantness, among two groups that would have been at each other's throats a generation ago. As far as I can see, this pleasant atmosphere was mostly due to the fact that no-one on either side gives a toss about religion any more, and (especially in Ireland) this can only be a Very Good Thing Indeed. Religion - uniting us all in fellowship and harmony, but only when we stop taking it seriously.
Apart from that, and the anticipated moanings of one new in-law, the wedding was a pretty much unqualified success, with no fights or horrible drunken scenes, ad plenty of embarrassing dancing by the older generation, which unfortunately now includes me. I managed to plead disability until about half-past one in the morning, when my cousin Peter dragged me bodily onto the floor and forced me to hop about arrhythmically to "Come On Eileen", while scores of appalled children looked on. Unfortunately, the batteries in my camera died in the church, so I have no pictures of the happy couple, who were remarkably handsome and relieved-looking. Although I do have some shots of the hanging-about-on-the-hotel-lawn phase, mostly of women struggling to avoid trapping their high heels in the muddy turf and keep their fascinators from blowing off in the chill wind, I managed to drop my camera down the (unused) toilet before the reception, so I have no entertaining candid shots. This is probably just as well, although I am sorry not to have recorded my cousin Donal, who is the quintessential embarassing dancing father, leaping about as if electrified far into the night, surrounded by his many applauding offspring. He dances like Dick Van Dyke being a Cokernee, kicking his legs up into the air with mad abandon. If he was wearing braces, he would have had his thumbs tucked into them. I've never seen anything like it (since the last family wedding). The whole thing went on until about three in the morning, making a total of about fourteen hours of wedding, not counting getting-ready time. I ate too much, and drank what were probably far too many vodka and cokes, as well as whiskey, wine and cider, but didn't have a hangover.
The wedding itself was extremely entertaining, and had me thinking interesting thoughts about religion The bride was a protestant, so the wedding was in the pretty little Victorian Gothic Church of Ireland church, rather than the barn-like fifties modern Catholic one down the road, and was jointly held by the protestant minister ("call me Jim"; a former Catholic priest who left to get married) and the Catholic priest ("father Jimmy"). Several of the cousins, born and brought up in the area, were wandering about the church, fascinated by finally seeing inside a building they had passed several times a day for much of their lives. The bride's party also featured a number of Presbyterians specially shipped down from Belfast, but apart from one crack about Ian Paisley in the best man's speech that was greeted by a split second of silence before everyone laughed, there was no trace of rancour or unpleasantness, among two groups that would have been at each other's throats a generation ago. As far as I can see, this pleasant atmosphere was mostly due to the fact that no-one on either side gives a toss about religion any more, and (especially in Ireland) this can only be a Very Good Thing Indeed. Religion - uniting us all in fellowship and harmony, but only when we stop taking it seriously.
Apart from that, and the anticipated moanings of one new in-law, the wedding was a pretty much unqualified success, with no fights or horrible drunken scenes, ad plenty of embarrassing dancing by the older generation, which unfortunately now includes me. I managed to plead disability until about half-past one in the morning, when my cousin Peter dragged me bodily onto the floor and forced me to hop about arrhythmically to "Come On Eileen", while scores of appalled children looked on. Unfortunately, the batteries in my camera died in the church, so I have no pictures of the happy couple, who were remarkably handsome and relieved-looking. Although I do have some shots of the hanging-about-on-the-hotel-lawn phase, mostly of women struggling to avoid trapping their high heels in the muddy turf and keep their fascinators from blowing off in the chill wind, I managed to drop my camera down the (unused) toilet before the reception, so I have no entertaining candid shots. This is probably just as well, although I am sorry not to have recorded my cousin Donal, who is the quintessential embarassing dancing father, leaping about as if electrified far into the night, surrounded by his many applauding offspring. He dances like Dick Van Dyke being a Cokernee, kicking his legs up into the air with mad abandon. If he was wearing braces, he would have had his thumbs tucked into them. I've never seen anything like it (since the last family wedding). The whole thing went on until about three in the morning, making a total of about fourteen hours of wedding, not counting getting-ready time. I ate too much, and drank what were probably far too many vodka and cokes, as well as whiskey, wine and cider, but didn't have a hangover.