The Wedding
Not counting my own wedding (which was in Ireland but not really traditionally Irish as such), this was my first Irish wedding. The ceremony was in a church on the grounds of a hospital in Ennis. It was a modern church that sort of reminded me of my grandparent's church in New Jersey. A string quartet and a flute-guy provided the music. (I absolutely despise the word flautist - don't make me use it.)
Nicola looked great - very happy and beautiful. I loved her elegant dress, especially because it didn't have a train. Every bride I've ever known (me included) has bitched mercilessly about not wanting to drag a 20-pound train off our asses all nights. So what do we all do? Go out and buy perfect fairy-princess dresses with the aforementioned 20-pound train. Nic's dress proved that you could have beautiful and elegant without the dreaded train.
The ceremony was the standard-issue Catholic affair although through a combination of a thick accent and a faulty (or perhaps non-existent) microphone, I missed a fair bit of what the priest said. After exchanging the rings, Kevin gave Nicola a piece of silver (again, I was back pretty far so I think it was a coin and not like a fork or spoon or something) as a token of all he had. That was about the only unusual thing I noticed in the ceremony.
The reception was in Lakeside Hotel in Killaloe-Ballina. (Think Minneapolis-St. Paul, but on a town-level instead of a city-scale.) I had a bit of confusion over which town was which, but in practical terms it didn't really matter. It was just funny to realise that our B&B was only a 10-minute walk from the Lakeside, but was in a different town and county.
There was a coffee and hors d'oeuvres reception before dinner and we had a good time catching up with all of our friends. The college gang was spread out in the tables at dinner, which gave us a chance to meet some of the other guests. I sat next to a Canadian woman who came all the way over for the wedding.
Dinner passed fairly quickly and the highlight was definitely the profiteroles, which were the overwhelming dessert choice. The speeches were also a lot of fun since several tables had bets going on length of time they would take. Kevin's speech was off-the-cuff but very well delivered and included two pieces of advice from a stranger - "First thing, remember, you're much luckier than she is. Second thing, everything is going to be fine."
We were ushered out of the dining room so it could get set up for the dancing portion of the evening. The band was good but loud and conversation among the non-dancers was a bit tricky and involved bellowing directly into other people's ears.
The band played a good mix of favourites including the Beatles, the Saw Doctors and the Waterboys. I am pleased to report that the traditional Irish reception does NOT include the Hokey Pokey or the Chicken Dance. It did involve having to get up and stand holding hands in a big circle on the dance floor and then pushing in on Kevin and Nicola, who were standing in the centre. All of this pushing around involved some Irish dancing moves (or, in my case, Irish kicking and flailing) and went on while the band played "Galway Bay" with some bits of "Belle of Belfast City" and "It's a long way to Tipperary" interspersed. (And for the record, with modern Irish roads, it is no longer a long way to Tipperary. At least not from Dublin.)
All of that was probably my favourite part of the evening. It was something my brothers would have absolutely loved. The band finished up maybe around midnight and then a DJ came on to continue the music. Most of our friends retreated to the hallway, where we pulled up chairs and sofas and talked with our inside voices, which were at this point cracking from the strain of competing with the band all night.
A wedding of one of Peter's friends just wouldn't have been complete without some singing of Monty Python songs, so that also happened out in the hallway. We left shortly thereafter, around 2:30 am. (We're just getting too old for this staying up late thing.) Peter been drinking for part of the evening, although it had been awhile and he was fairly sobered up. We still decided it would be safer to walk back to our B&B.
Hold that thought. This was an Irish wedding and I haven't mentioned drinking yet. I hate to disappoint you, but either I've acclimitised completely into Irish culture or there just wasn't THAT much drinking. I didn't witness any puking, passing out or fist-fighting. The alcohol consumption seemed pretty normal and under control to me.
It was a cash bar and the Irish have an interesting social custom of ordering rounds. So, you're out with your friends and someone goes up and gets drinks for everyone. I guess the idea is that at some point, everyone will have bought everyone else a drink. Buying a round is known as your "shout" as in "It's my shout, what are you drinking?"
When someone else is buying my drink, I'm often difficult and just insist that they surprise me. Doing this got me a Bailey's (timeless classic, you must agree) and a Jameson and Red (an Irish peculiarity that must be had to be understood). When it was my shout, I was over-ruled by Big Kev, who is about a foot and a half taller than me. That's the other thing about buying rounds - it can be a contact sport. But it's a weird sport because you don't want to be seen to not be pulling your round weight but sometimes it's hard to get your round in. I guess this is why it's called a shout, because you have to shout that it's your round and whoever shouts the loudest wins.
With that insight into the Irish drinking culture completed, it's time to go back to the walk to the guesthouse. We stopped at the car so I could get my jacket since I was freezing and then we started the walk. It was pretty short and the only people we passed were some lager louts out near a pub. (One of whom was peeing on a wall.) We passed them without incident and then made our way across the long, narrow bridge to Killaloe.
This was the part of the evening I'd been dreading the most, since it was a one-lane bridge and the traffic lights were non-functional. I had visions of us getting wiped out by a bad driver, but in the end, we made it across the bridge without encountering a single car.
Well, I made it across the bridge without encountering a single car. Half-way across the bridge, Peter realised he'd left the room key in the pocket of his sports coat, which was in the car which was, of course, back at the hotel. Doh! We briefly debated our options and decided it was best that he dash back for it while I made my way to the guesthouse with his camera equipment.
This is how I found myself standing outside a locked guesthouse on the dark and deserted streets of a small Irish village at 3 am on a Friday night. I felt about as safe as a chicken in a fox den. I sat on the window sill of the guesthouse in such a way as to hide the camera equipment. I mentally measured the distance to the doorbell and tried to think of what I would do if something bad happened. The couple of cars that crossed the bridge into Killaloe gave me the heebies.
A guy crossed the bridge and walked towards me, telling me to smile and being typical Irish-chatty. Except it wasn't 2 in the afternoon and we weren't meeting in a supermarket so I couldn't really react like a normal person. I jumped up and stood closer to the doorbell, wondering when was the right time to panic. The guy stood WAY too close to me and tried to shake my hand while I shifted awkwardly and tried to find a polite way to say that he was making me uncomfortable. He asked what I was doing and told him that I was waiting for my husband.
I think either my deer-in-the-headlights expression or my hand edging toward the doorbell alerted him to unease. He jumped back and said "Oh, no, no don't be scared. I'm a good person. Really. You don't have to be afraid of me. I understand." Then he said goodnight and went on his way. Peter arrived in the car 2 minutes later. I'd been alone for about 10 minutes and was on the verge of collapsing in a panicky ball.
So, now we know, 10 minutes is how long I can stand by myself on a dark, deserted village road without having a total paranoid meltdown. I think I'm getting better. There's a time I wouldn't have been able to last 10 seconds.
Nicola looked great - very happy and beautiful. I loved her elegant dress, especially because it didn't have a train. Every bride I've ever known (me included) has bitched mercilessly about not wanting to drag a 20-pound train off our asses all nights. So what do we all do? Go out and buy perfect fairy-princess dresses with the aforementioned 20-pound train. Nic's dress proved that you could have beautiful and elegant without the dreaded train.
The ceremony was the standard-issue Catholic affair although through a combination of a thick accent and a faulty (or perhaps non-existent) microphone, I missed a fair bit of what the priest said. After exchanging the rings, Kevin gave Nicola a piece of silver (again, I was back pretty far so I think it was a coin and not like a fork or spoon or something) as a token of all he had. That was about the only unusual thing I noticed in the ceremony.
The reception was in Lakeside Hotel in Killaloe-Ballina. (Think Minneapolis-St. Paul, but on a town-level instead of a city-scale.) I had a bit of confusion over which town was which, but in practical terms it didn't really matter. It was just funny to realise that our B&B was only a 10-minute walk from the Lakeside, but was in a different town and county.
There was a coffee and hors d'oeuvres reception before dinner and we had a good time catching up with all of our friends. The college gang was spread out in the tables at dinner, which gave us a chance to meet some of the other guests. I sat next to a Canadian woman who came all the way over for the wedding.
Dinner passed fairly quickly and the highlight was definitely the profiteroles, which were the overwhelming dessert choice. The speeches were also a lot of fun since several tables had bets going on length of time they would take. Kevin's speech was off-the-cuff but very well delivered and included two pieces of advice from a stranger - "First thing, remember, you're much luckier than she is. Second thing, everything is going to be fine."
We were ushered out of the dining room so it could get set up for the dancing portion of the evening. The band was good but loud and conversation among the non-dancers was a bit tricky and involved bellowing directly into other people's ears.
The band played a good mix of favourites including the Beatles, the Saw Doctors and the Waterboys. I am pleased to report that the traditional Irish reception does NOT include the Hokey Pokey or the Chicken Dance. It did involve having to get up and stand holding hands in a big circle on the dance floor and then pushing in on Kevin and Nicola, who were standing in the centre. All of this pushing around involved some Irish dancing moves (or, in my case, Irish kicking and flailing) and went on while the band played "Galway Bay" with some bits of "Belle of Belfast City" and "It's a long way to Tipperary" interspersed. (And for the record, with modern Irish roads, it is no longer a long way to Tipperary. At least not from Dublin.)
All of that was probably my favourite part of the evening. It was something my brothers would have absolutely loved. The band finished up maybe around midnight and then a DJ came on to continue the music. Most of our friends retreated to the hallway, where we pulled up chairs and sofas and talked with our inside voices, which were at this point cracking from the strain of competing with the band all night.
A wedding of one of Peter's friends just wouldn't have been complete without some singing of Monty Python songs, so that also happened out in the hallway. We left shortly thereafter, around 2:30 am. (We're just getting too old for this staying up late thing.) Peter been drinking for part of the evening, although it had been awhile and he was fairly sobered up. We still decided it would be safer to walk back to our B&B.
Hold that thought. This was an Irish wedding and I haven't mentioned drinking yet. I hate to disappoint you, but either I've acclimitised completely into Irish culture or there just wasn't THAT much drinking. I didn't witness any puking, passing out or fist-fighting. The alcohol consumption seemed pretty normal and under control to me.
It was a cash bar and the Irish have an interesting social custom of ordering rounds. So, you're out with your friends and someone goes up and gets drinks for everyone. I guess the idea is that at some point, everyone will have bought everyone else a drink. Buying a round is known as your "shout" as in "It's my shout, what are you drinking?"
When someone else is buying my drink, I'm often difficult and just insist that they surprise me. Doing this got me a Bailey's (timeless classic, you must agree) and a Jameson and Red (an Irish peculiarity that must be had to be understood). When it was my shout, I was over-ruled by Big Kev, who is about a foot and a half taller than me. That's the other thing about buying rounds - it can be a contact sport. But it's a weird sport because you don't want to be seen to not be pulling your round weight but sometimes it's hard to get your round in. I guess this is why it's called a shout, because you have to shout that it's your round and whoever shouts the loudest wins.
With that insight into the Irish drinking culture completed, it's time to go back to the walk to the guesthouse. We stopped at the car so I could get my jacket since I was freezing and then we started the walk. It was pretty short and the only people we passed were some lager louts out near a pub. (One of whom was peeing on a wall.) We passed them without incident and then made our way across the long, narrow bridge to Killaloe.
This was the part of the evening I'd been dreading the most, since it was a one-lane bridge and the traffic lights were non-functional. I had visions of us getting wiped out by a bad driver, but in the end, we made it across the bridge without encountering a single car.
Well, I made it across the bridge without encountering a single car. Half-way across the bridge, Peter realised he'd left the room key in the pocket of his sports coat, which was in the car which was, of course, back at the hotel. Doh! We briefly debated our options and decided it was best that he dash back for it while I made my way to the guesthouse with his camera equipment.
This is how I found myself standing outside a locked guesthouse on the dark and deserted streets of a small Irish village at 3 am on a Friday night. I felt about as safe as a chicken in a fox den. I sat on the window sill of the guesthouse in such a way as to hide the camera equipment. I mentally measured the distance to the doorbell and tried to think of what I would do if something bad happened. The couple of cars that crossed the bridge into Killaloe gave me the heebies.
A guy crossed the bridge and walked towards me, telling me to smile and being typical Irish-chatty. Except it wasn't 2 in the afternoon and we weren't meeting in a supermarket so I couldn't really react like a normal person. I jumped up and stood closer to the doorbell, wondering when was the right time to panic. The guy stood WAY too close to me and tried to shake my hand while I shifted awkwardly and tried to find a polite way to say that he was making me uncomfortable. He asked what I was doing and told him that I was waiting for my husband.
I think either my deer-in-the-headlights expression or my hand edging toward the doorbell alerted him to unease. He jumped back and said "Oh, no, no don't be scared. I'm a good person. Really. You don't have to be afraid of me. I understand." Then he said goodnight and went on his way. Peter arrived in the car 2 minutes later. I'd been alone for about 10 minutes and was on the verge of collapsing in a panicky ball.
So, now we know, 10 minutes is how long I can stand by myself on a dark, deserted village road without having a total paranoid meltdown. I think I'm getting better. There's a time I wouldn't have been able to last 10 seconds.
posted by -Ann at
1:18 PM
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