Victoria & Paul
The Hawthorns
Blackrod, Lancashire
The morning started the way all the best ones do — hairspray, hugs, and someone's nan getting her photo taken before she'd quite agreed to it. Victoria had her makeup done at the kitchen table while the dress hung patiently by the window, and the bouquet sat waiting on a wall outside, doing nothing in particular except looking good.
Paul and his groomsmen leaned properly into the Scottish theme — kilts, sporrans, and a piper who walked them to the church like something out of a film. Inside, under the stained glass, Victoria came down the aisle on her father's arm, and by the time the ring went on there wasn't a dry eye among the kilted contingent in the front pew.
Outside the church the piper struck up again among the gravestones, which is either very Lancashire or very Scottish, I couldn't decide. Guests milled about with prams and introductions, and then it was on to The Hawthorns in Blackrod, where the welcome sign made it official.
On the lawn, with the Bolton hills rolling out behind them, Victoria and Paul had a proper run at their portraits — forehead kisses, laughing fits, and one particularly good profile shot that I'm still quite proud of. The light behaved itself, which doesn't always happen in August.
Speeches ran long enough to need a top-up of champagne, the cake got cut without anyone losing a finger, and by the time the first dance started under the fairy lights, the kilts had mostly stayed on and the party had properly begun.
