Wednesday, 11 November 2015


“Once a King in Narnia, always a King in Narnia. But don't go trying to use the same route twice. Indeed, don't try to get there at all. It'll happen when you're not looking for it.”

C.S Lewis, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

I have always been captivated by the work of CS Lewis, and never completely given up hope that I might stumble upon the door to another world. Thus while looking for an appropriate venue to host our wedding party, we discovered Nothmoor House; a manor so splendidly Victorian, rambling and remote and ever so slightly down at heel, I felt I may finally be close to finding that elusive magical wardrobe.

After a long drive from London Felix was desperate to explore, racing along echoing corridors and peeping into rooms which telescoped on infinitely. At one end of the ground floor a grandfather clock presided over the main staircase, at the other an old fashioned kitchen led to a network of rooms unchanged since the reign of Queen Victoria. Larders, pantries, cellars, billiard rooms and priests holes, every doorway revealed a new delight. Staircases multiplied as we roamed the house, trying to establish the order of rooms for guests who would soon arrive. At the very top of the house, tucked under the eaves, a small second floor beckoned. Taking Felix by the hand we climbed the steep stairs to find ourselves in a room of powder blue. Nauticalia dominated; a fine oil of a boat sailed over the mantelpiece, whilst a miniature galleon thrust triumphantly forth on the dresser. This was to be our room, a refuge from the celebrations that would spill merriment over the time worn bricks. ‘Bluey’ Felix remarked approvingly, ‘Bleuey bluey bleuy’.

We couldn’t afford a big wedding, yet fourteen years together called for a
decent show. Thus we decided on a two point plan to alleviate costs. Step one; tie the knot legally in a simple and cost effective registry do. Step two; host a debaucherous weekend of celebrations in a remarbable setting that would weave its own spell on our party, whilst doing all the catering, decorating and everything else ourselves. A triumphant team of toilers produced a sausage and mash that would shame a chef, and at a table laid by my nearest and dearest thirty seven candles shimmered in glass holders - one for every guest plus a few for absent friends - we savoured a repast prepared by loving hands, listened to heartfelt words spoken by those who know us best, and later danced to an ever changing band of musicians, one drummer succeeding another in an orgiastic blur of jamming. I wore a dress that belonged on a ballet stage; a hundred layers of tremulous tulle floating to the knee; on my head a crown of multicoloured flowers. Yellow, pink and blue blooms, red berry, green leaf and whispering white gypsomilia;
a nod to every season. In the garden a group had assembled around the firepit; clustering around the flickering orange glow as people have done since time immaterial.  Stars untroubled by city lights shone with bright cold clarity in a sky of black velvet, gazing down indulgently as we tried in vain to set off the heart shaped sky lanterns until at last one lit and flew trembling into the night sky. 

The next day a hungover group of survivors decamped to the beach, driving across an Exmoor aflame with autumn colour. Low mist hovered over the heather and gorse, painting the undulating wilds in a wash of watercolour hues. Lynmouth was as quaint and picturesque as could be, Felix chasing waves and throwing stones while we watched a striking sunset streak the sky with peach and rose. Back at the house, our numbers depleted but still great in spirit, we embarked upon an unforgettable game of Sardines. I have never played this other version of Hide and Seek and doubt I will ever play it as memorably as this. The endless rooms and stairways, innumerable bathrooms and uncountable nooks and crannies made for an epic game, culminating in a spooky final round. Just as we were getting tired of searching the house a peal from the servants bells rang through the silence, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. As we raced downstairs we saw a bell still slightly swinging but no one to be found, and when at long last we found the elusive seven, tucked behind pieces of furniture in the TV room like forgotten umbrellas, we raised a great cheer. 

That night, as I crept up to bed on the creaky staircase, feeling the half emptiness of the house yawning around me, I felt how keenly places like these need laughter and light and revelry. They need children and grandmothers and all in between to fill their echoing spaces and give them purpose once more. These stately homes that Britain has in such abundance, these crumbling and forgotten grand piles, these other Narnia’s waiting to be discovered. For one enchanted, unforgettable weekend I was both a bride and a memory of all the brides this house has seen. Every floorboard has been stepped upon ten thousand times, every bed seen its fair share of passion and anger, love and betrayal. Our wedding party joined a succession of events grand and humble, joyful and melancholy, that Northmoor has hosted. As I luxuriated in the giant clawfoot bathtub, the Victorian proportions of which have never been bettered, I felt the ethereal substance of history tangible about me. A princess for a weekend, just as every bride dreams of being.

On our final morning, as Felix and I wandered the grounds in the warm October sunshine, pilfering raspberries from the kitchen garden and watching the chickens peck about idly, I felt myself firmly rooted in the moment. This was me now; blessed with a beautiful boy as fair as the morning sun and a husband with whom I laugh every day, surrounded by friends from many corners of the globe, and cocooned in the warmth of love and festivity. ‘Damn it to hell' I exclaimed out loud, startling Felix and the hens, ‘We should get married more often’.

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