My grandparents got married in August 1925.
My niece got married in August 2025.
Exactly a century and a day later.
My grandparents grew up in the Lea Valley four miles apart. She was a farm girl from Essex and he was a town boy from Hertfordshire, both very much from different sides of the tracks. But their jobs brought them together, she a barmaid at the village pub and he the postman whose rounds took him across the river. He caught her eye, she leaned out the window for a daily chat and before long a wedding was pencilled in.
My niece and her husband grew up 120 miles apart, she in East Anglia and he in the West Midlands. University brought them together, the great modern social mixer, and all because they happened to choose the same campus far from home. They waited until the final year to accidentally meet, he behind a drumkit on stage and she skipping revision at a gig she was never planning to attend. The wedding, though, took eight more years.
My grandparents married at the local parish church. Hers not his, as tradition dictates, so the medieval church on the far side of the village rather than the medieval church four doors up the road. The local newspaper reported that my grandmother was the first bride to walk through the new lych-gate at the end of the churchyard path. I shall be referencing the local newspaper article several times in what follows.
My niece and her husband went nowhere near a church, weddings having moved on somewhat since the early 20th century. They did the official bit in the city and then held a second celebration with a larger audience in the woods. The location brought its perils - I was buzzed by a wasp during the opening remarks and a large yellow leaf fell onto the violin while the string quartet were playing. The celebrant was a woman in jaunty leggings rather than a man in a dog collar, the readings were poems rather than scripture, the music included secular works by Elton John and the Beatles rather than classical organ pieces and the end result was a signed certificate rather than an inked register. I bet we smiled more than they did.
My grandmother wore ivory crepe-de-chine with veil and orange blossom. My niece also wore ivory, a flowy veiled thing with a train and less in the way of floral decoration, such are the limits of my descriptive abilities when it comes to wedding dresses. Her bouquet featured roses and a bold spray of white flowers, whereas my grandmother's comprised pink and white carnations, possibly locally grown. There was also a contrast in the choice of bridesmaids, the 1920s quartet being young nieces in white frocks and the 2020s trio being schoolmates in green dresses. Everyone looked lovely, no doubt on both occasions.
My niece and her husband were showered in organic confetti, thrown in strict accordance to the photographer's wishes because it's all about framing the right shot. I'm willing to bet that my grandparents never paused during their shower for a dip and a snog. Other contrived images included the group shot on the lawn, multiple combinations of family and friends and, later in the evening, an avenue of sparklers. I've searched in vain through the family archives for a photo from the older wedding, indeed I suspect very few were taken, which is a shame because the latest wedding will be preserved in print, digital image and video format forever.
My grandparents' reception was held at a farm up the lane because you can always hire your sister's gaff on the cheap. I suspect the groom's family found it a bit down at heel, indeed the bride's relatives are the poorest folk I ever remember visiting, but I've checked the actual venue and it's a listed 15th century timber-framed house that's now worth over a million. My niece also held her reception in a barn, this time merely 18th century and never used for chickens, additionally with a convenient space for canapes and crazy golf on the lawn outside.
A modern reception is a carefully choreographed occasion with fine cuisine, fine wines and ubiquitous floral touches. I bet my grandparents had a broader spread of cooked meats than we did and that their cakes were more filling than our bijou trio of desserts, but also that our roast chicken platter would have blown their minds. As for alcohol a rural pre-war village would have been able to provide killer ales on demand, nothing fancy in a schooner, also liberally dispensed rather than reverting to a paid bar staffed by black-clad contractors. The merry end result will however have been the same.
When did speeches get so long? My grandparents probably got away with a few words of thanks but these days everyone's expected to produce a carefully-scripted star performance before the food can continue. As father of the bride my brother knocked his four-pager out of the park with all the right nods and nostalgic warmth, while the groom played safer than I'd have guessed the day we first met. For a proper 21st century touch we enjoyed a speech from the maid of honour as well as the best man, the former eliciting all the paper hankies and the latter digging amusing dirt as only brothers can.
The identity of the first dance had been speculated in a sweepstake prior to the meal, a grid of mostly 21st century tunes which greatly challenged attendees of an older persuasion. The actual choice I'd never heard of - it failed to reach the top 40 in 2013 - but is now indelibly imprinted on my mind complete with vigorous romantic visuals. The band then proceeded to play covers that ticked all boxes, from I Can't Get No Satisfaction to Moves Like Jagger and Wonderwall to I Predict A Riot. I can confirm that Pink Pony Club is the latest addition to the list of wedding staples that even auntie knows, and that several of the beardier men present proved unexpectedly proficient at the Macarena.
The 1925 newspaper article states that my grandparents spent their honeymoon in Folkestone, which to be fair is better than my parents managed four decades later. By contrast the latest happy couple are currently sunning themselves in Portugal, and by all accounts utterly delighted to finally be husband and wife. My grandparents would have laughed at the idea of an eight year courtship and been shocked that the couple moved in together five years before tying the knot. But they'd have recognised the emotional connection the two of them share, indeed it's always apparent, and no doubt been proud that three generations later the family line continues to thrive.
The two weddings may have been vastly contrasting occasions but what binds them both together, a century and a day apart, is a great occasion in a barn, a very happy couple and true love.
