The Wedding

She was struggling to find a quiet space to collect her thoughts. Although a lot of people had now left after the long awaited and hugely anticipated nuptials, there was still a houseful. Many different characters with their unique personalities and talents, family and friends of the bride and groom, and now theirs. Everywhere she sat, someone else sat too and she soon gave up and gave in and joined the conversation.

Another feast was being prepared, the hustle and bustle in the kitchen best avoided, the smells once more wafting through the farmhouse. Orianna had been head chef, chief caterer, interior design consultant and wedding planner throughout the week, her energy and creativity something to aspire to. Ori was a long-time friend of the bride and the two of them together had planned every day, every meal fastidiously, including creating magic in what was just a dirty, dusty old barn for the wedding, a beautiful setting.

The wedding had been beautiful. It had been such a perfect day even after the earlier rain, threatening to dampen the wedding day and creating an early panic over the outdoor setting and decorations. An early but quick French ceremony in a small village, in a nondescript cottage overflowing with guests, followed by a day of celebration, with the high heels long gone.  Long time friendships renewed and new one forged over bubbles and canapes.

The hat had been a fabulous addition to her outfit, suitably French chic, if not a little over the top, and which had encouraged a great deal of conversation. Drinking champagne in the filtered sunshine, the weather behaving after the earlier rain and the bride and groom so happy and relaxed, surrounded by their family and friends.

All week the old barn had been closed tight, complete with a Do Not Enter sign that was hard to obey.  The Do Not Enter sign when removed revealed the barn decorated with lavender and lily bunches, the high beams perfect for the draping of linen and fairy lights, turning the space into a romantic fairy-tale venue.

They’d been here at the Farmhouse for a week. Here, somewhere in the middle of rural France, so quiet and rural and oh so quintessentially French. The new pool, glistening in the sunlight, blended in well against the aged whitewashed stone of the house and turquoise blue shutters. She wondered of its 200 year old history …. This could possibly have been a hideaway for the resistance … who would have known … the history was hidden deep within the thick stone walls.

And now here she was, packing her bag now, musing how like a jigsaw puzzle it always was for the return journey, nothing fitting as easily as it once had and the hat causing a few headaches. She could hear the children in the pool, the joyful laughter, what would soon be a memory to treasure.

It had been an amazing time, restful and peaceful even within the cacophony of festivities and she was ready now to start the next adventure in Paris. She was super excited but dreading the last goodbyes …. these would be the hardest to those who mattered most and harder still for the husband -she always feeling his pain and heartache and wishing it away.

Their holiday was nearly over, but a week remained. A week of more love, laughter and making memories.