An Andalucian Wedding
Valerie Day
It had been a good night at the tapas bar. We speculate that the bar owner might well be considering retirement this morning, so profitable must have been the trade from our celebrating family and friends! As I sip my reviving cortado I realise that this will be the last breakfast Ill share with my unmarried son. Once the talk turns to ushers, lunches and amplifiers we go our separate ways : the wedding has been timed for 6pm, after the heat of the day.
Rory is marrying the lovely Tiziana, part Italian/part Spanish : totally international. They met in Amsterdam. I wonder at, and find myself envying, the almost careless way in which the current generation move between countries and form the closest of allegiances. Their mutual friends speak many languages and call a host of places home and I feel honoured and enriched to know them
I leave this wonderfully opulent converted townhouse and wander out onto the ancient streets of the Andalucian hill town of Ronda. It feels oddly self-indulgent on this important day to have only myself to please. I check that the ordered prendidas (buttonholes) for family and ushers are ready: these are in memory of Rorys elder brother Angus and Im choked momentarily in remembrance of him and his love of MacDiarmids Little white rose of Scotland. They will be worn with pride. White roses will also decorate the church and be carried by the bride.
I pause to take in the breathtaking vistas from the bridge spanning the plunging 100m El Tajo gorge into which undesirables were thrown not so long ago. Im too excited to shop, constantly being accosted by groups of familiar faces, how odd it seems in this foreign place. After a prolonged and very sociable caf lunch of tapas and iced draughts of gin tickled with tonic, it is time to get ready.
Back in the luxury of my suite, I cant quite settle to the sensible siesta but indulge in the abundance of fluffy towels and lotions, dressing very slowly. Suddenly I feel nervous and wish I could share all this. On cue, the phone rings, the Receptionist announcing that my friends await me in the courtyard! I grab my hat, glancing at this elegant stranger sweeping past the massive staircase mirror, and there they all are, dearest friends who have travelled so far, looking quite wonderful: Sue pretty, Elspeth elegant, Sandy, Jamie, Mungo, Alastair scrubbed up and dashing! I feel so blessed. Just time for some iced water and were off, around the corner beneath the bulk of the ancient former mosque, the towering iglesia Santa Maria el Mayor.
Kilted figures flank the steps, eager to direct everyone into this vast space. Assailed by the scent of flowers, the hundreds of beautifully dressed guests, the happy and expectant atmosphere, I draw breath. Rorys green velvet jacket appears to glow as the organist strikes up and a glorious Tiziana joins him to ascend the altar steps. They kneel, the lovely train is adjusted and our hearts are in our mouths, so beautiful and yet so unutterably vulnerable do they look. The bilingual service romps along, happy and full of humour, also timeless and deeply moving. The organist falters - the Spanish dont sing hymns - but Rory, ever the choirboy, turns around to give a note and conduct! The Purcell rings out confidently. Sheer joy and love propel them up the aisle amidst the upswell of delight from banks of family and friends.
Fresh rose petals stick to the nap of Rorys jacket and to the flower in Tizianas thick, black hair as they depart across the worn cobbles in an antique carriage drawn by a pair of handsome Maestranza horses. The rest of us are piped through the narrow streets, across the bridge, past Spains oldest Bullring to the reception, the sight of so many kilts stopping the Rondes in their tracks, the gorgeous women largely ignored! The carriage pauses at an apartment overlooking the bullring, for a quick greeting to Tizianas ailing Grandmother who herself was married in that church.
It is pleasantly warm on the terrace and groups form and reform, glasses in hand, as the sun sets slowly behind the dramatic ranges of the Serrania de Ronda. It is such a huge, colourful, totally international crowd, noisily united in their love of the young couple who generously chose to share their day. I shiver as the strains of Highland Cathedral usher us in to dine, can this really be happening?
Dinner is a triumph, everyone seated with friends and contemporaries, each of the thirty or so tables identified by a decorated place name significant to the couple and hand-painted by them - Madrid, Glasgow, Jeddah, Antanarivo, Tangier, Iona, Moscow. The speeches are excellent, Sandro emotional, Rory sincere and Dave amusing. There is a wonderful mini film of the couples childhood and youth and it is as I turn away from this that, for the first time that day, I blink back tears. The food is truly superb, well researched Im told! Wine flows copiously and the younger guests, Scots most noticeably, flock to the free bar. The dance floor fills. The Scots attempt to teach reels to the Spanish. My son and I rock and roll. The noise level soars.
They are set to dance all night. The glamorous, bejewelled tias (aunts) at the next table have left. The evening has been a joy but I am nearly talked out and readily accept an offer to escort me home. Its past three in the morning but there is a freshness out on the newly sprayed cobbles of the floodlit Cuidad. Shoes kicked off, iced brandy in hand, sprawled across the four-poster bed, I revel in the day just over. It had surpassed all expectations. I have the most special of daughters in law and a son of whom I am so proud. I feel so lucky and very, very happy.
