The Hen Party Phenomenon

Hen Party, River Cottage HQ

Strangely, although I have been to many weddings over the years, I have been to very few hen parties.
I think, maybe, when I was young and my peers began to get married, hen parties were not such grand, important affairs. 
Maybe I just got too drunk to remember 
Or maybe I just wasn't invited.
Whatever the reason, today the hen and stag "do," seem to have become an integral part of the total wedding experience.
Hen nights seem to have evolved into " hen weekends, " and stag nights into "stag weeks."

Whereas in the past the bride or groom-to-be would meet a couple of friends in the pub and have a few pre-marital drinks, now the whole thing is an event which needs to be carefully planned, precisely organised and riotously enjoyed. 

It must be an experience uniquely tailored to the hobbies and interests of the future bride or groom.

It must include games involving varying degrees of drunkenness and either physical challenge or creative stimulation.

And definitely there must be lots of unhealthy snacks, delicious food, more drunkenness and the potential for long nights of wild abandon.

Knowing all of this, I wasn't sure what to expect when I set off at 7 a.m last Saturday morning, bottle of Prosecco in rucksack, for my friend's hen party weekend. 

She had requested a cooking lesson and meal at the River Cottage HQ in Axminster.

And so it was, that yesterday afternoon, 12 of us, friends and family, arrived at the beautiful, too-big-to-be-called-a-cottage, "Trill Cottage," just a bumpy tractor ride away from the famous River Cottage Cafe HQ.

We filled the table with snacks, the fridge with alcohol and settled down to write " what makes a good marriage," on wooden spoons.

Turns out, that the essence of a good marriage fits easily onto a wooden spoon. 

 Perhaps the hardest thing is to stir it into your married life.

The strange thing about a hen party, is that while all of us know someone, only the bride-to-be knows everyone.

But gradually, as the hours drifted by and the Prosecco flowed, the polite conversations of strangers, began to change into something else.

Outside the rain hammered on the windows, while inside we carved fragile bridges of trust and spun silken webs of friendship and ate lots of crisps and chocolate.

So that by the time we emerged, muddy and damp, from our tractor ride to River Cottage HQ, we felt somehow bonded, perhaps by words, perhaps by familiarity or perhaps by the shared anticipation of the evening ahead of us.

And it was magical.

We walked into a simple flagged stone room with a table laid ready just for us, a wood burning stove flickering in the corner and a delicious brandy and apple juice aperitif waiting for us on a comfortingly solid sideboard. 

We wandered between our private dining room and a rustic kitchen hung with shining pans. a fire crackling in the open fireplace and our very own sous-chef enthusiastically teaching us how to create the perfect souffle and the crispiest pakora.

" All the ingredients come from our very own garden and farm," he explained,  as he expertly chopped the garlic and onion with a very sharp knife and without looking because he was just slightly flirting with the youngest and most attractive of us. 

" All our eggs are from our very own chickens," he added, whisking the whites into perfect peaks and  holding the bowl over his head with a cheeky grin,to prove they wouldn't fall out.

Souffles exquisitely risen, pakoras crisped to perfection, our feasting began.

We sat at the table, our "hen" occasionally remembering to wear her tastefully flashing 

"bride-to-be" sash as course after delicious course arrived on our plates.

With each course our sous chef arrived to explain what the ingredients were.

Souffle, pakora, egg and spiced cauliflower, freshly caught fish in a reduced leek sauce, 

(halloumi for me), crackers and badger-bean humous, barbecued lamb, (homemade pasta for me), honeycomb, beetroot threads tossed in citrus juice and sugar, marscapone and fruit

It felt as though we were standing in a river of never-ending deliciousness.

And the fire burned, and the laughter danced around the table and our every wish was fulfilled by the staff.

For just a few hours we forgot about the rain and the mud and the real world outside.

Until, at last, satiated and almost comatosed by the huge amount of food we had consumed, we collapsed back into the tractor and were hauled back towards our oversized cottage.

We had meant to play some more games, we had meant to carry on drinking, we had meant to be raucous and wild.

But we were much too full.

So instead we all hugged each other good night and collapsed into bed.

Through the rain-dropped windows I could almost see the little seaside town of Seaton, nestling in the next valley.

During the Second World War, its holiday village had been an internment camp for those who were fleeing from the horror of Hitler.,

One of those internees was my Austrian grandad.

Seton was the last place he ever set foot on this earth.

He stepped from the camp onto a ship that was torpedoed, leaving his Ausrian wife and tiny baby daughter behind in an alien and unfamiliar world.

He had married my grandmother in England and held his daughter in his arms for a few short days.

He loved people and friendship and parties and good food and playing his mandolin.

And I'm sure, if his world had not been turned upside-down by the destructive and agonising heartbreak and hatred of war, he would have had the biggest stag do ever.

As I lay in my very comfortable bed, chatting and laughing with friends,

 I imagined him watching us from the beach, so strangely close.

I saw him smiling and waving.

And I know what he was telling me to do: to cling on tightly to every moment and to wrap them softly with my dreams. 

Because love and friendship are the greatest treasure we have.

And in the beauty of the memories we create together, lies the strength and courage of our future..

In the end, however drunkenly, loudly or deliciously, isn't that what a hen party should be celebrating?

 

Weddings, marriage and the great wedding dress hunt.

Strangely, I spent much of last weekend wedding dress shopping.
I say " strangely," because I know nothing about wedding dresses.
Our wedding wasn't the kind that needed a dreamy dress.
But one of my friends is getting married next year and Chichester is a good place to start  "the great-wedding dress-hunt." because it has lots of wedding dress shops, all very close together.
So despite my complete lack of experience, knowledge or expertise, I became my friend's wedding dress guide for the day.
I was looking forward to it.
Sitting, watching and subjectively advising is the easy party.
Trying on hundreds of dresses, each one fitted and flowing with miles of fabric, is the hard part.
But even I felt overwhelmed when we walked into the first shop and were greeted by  oceans of silk, miles of satin and a forest of lace and netting.

Where do you begin? 
How can you find out what style you need or what shade of white is best?
How do you know whether you need your dress to be boned or corseted, body-hugging or meringue-skirted? 
" Let me just talk you through our shop," said the first smiling assistant, greeting us at the door.
And immediately I could tell, this wasn't going to be the easy, laid-back, fun-filled  day I had imagined..
Because if you have to begin by being  "talked through," a tiny shop, down a narrow side-street in a small city, things are only going to get more complicated!
My friend, on the other hand, seemed completely unfazed by the unending choice of dresses or the complicated styles or the wedding dress lingo.
"These ones at the front of the shop are the designers with the longest lead time," explained the assistant.
" What's lead time?" I asked.
The assistant cast me a pitying look and my friend a sympathetic glance.
" The amount of time it takes for the dress to be ordered and arrive in the shop," she explained patiently." Now towards the back it's a bit shorter.  And then there's the fitting time to be factored in. Tell me again, when are you getting married?"
My friend gave her the date - about a year from now.
The assistant sucked in her breath thoughtfully, 
" You might still have just enough time," she said.
I almost fell over.
For someone, like me who usually plans what they are going to wear two minutes before they leave the house, the thought of having to plan what you will be wearing in a year's time is a hard concept to grasp.
My friend took the news bravely and began to browse through the rails of taffeta and frills and ivory silk.
And somehow, from the impossibly huge number of dresses, she managed to choose six.
" Don't worry," said her personal assistant comfortingly, " it's a start!"
While my friend  stepped in and out of fairy-tale dresses, I sat on a comfortable sofa, watching and listening and struggling to keep a grasp on reality.
Behind every changing-room curtain, brides-to-be were being helped on and off with dresses.
When they emerged, they would walk past me with a rustle of netting and a swirl of silk and survey themselves critically in a full-length mirror. 
it began to feel as though I had stepped into a world peopled only by princesses and me.
And everyone looked beautiful-whatever their size or shape or style.
Because isn't that the thing about wedding dresses?
For just one day in our often very ordinary lives,they make us feel that we are someone special and important and beautiful.
For just one day we live the fairy-tale dream.
And it works.
Every time my friend walked through the changing room curtain, she looked amazing..
But I'm not sure that was because of the dress.
I think maybe it was the flush of happiness and the thrill of excitement.
I hope it was because she's looking forward to marrying the man she loves. 

According to the office of National Statistics, every hour in England in 2012, thirteen couples got divorced.
Most divorces happen in the first ten years of marriage.
So as I sat in that " land of taffeta and lace,"  I couldn't help wondering if maybe we should be spending less time searching for the perfect dress and more time checking that we have really found the perfect partner.
Of course none of us ever know what will happen in the future, our hearts are " daft," and unpredictable, but it can be easy to get swept up in the excitement of a wedding and forget that what you are doing is getting married.
And that means committing yourself to another human being for the rest of your life: for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health.
A complete giving of yourself.
It's hard to imagine what that really means.
Marriage is an enormous thing to contemplate.
Never again in your life will you have to make such a huge decision.
Yet people spend more time choosing dresses and venues and cakes than truly contemplating the journey they are about to embark on when they say the words: " I do."
It's something Ninesh and I were thinking about slightly nervously on the drunken night before we got married.
We were in a bar in New York.

The Kettle of Fish, New York

  
Our witness, the only person who knew about our plan,  is gay and so it was a gay bar 
( always the best bars in New York).
Mostly it was full of gay men.
" What are you doing?" they asked Ninesh,crowding around him supportively.
" Celebrating," explained Ninesh, " we're getting married tomorrow."
" That's what we mean," chorused his audience, " what are you doing? Why are you marrying a woman?"
" I tried it once," said one of them, catching hold of his boyfriend's hand, " biggest mistake i ever made. Don't do it"
Have you really thought this through?" asked another.
" Have another shot, why don't you," they said, calling the waiter over, " it might help you change your mind, see things more clearly."
But many shots later, as we made our way back to my friend's loft apartment at 5 o'clock in the morning, Ninesh could see nothing clearly but remained adamant that he not only wanted to marry, but was sure he wanted it to be to a woman.
So we woke up on our wedding-day, blurry-eyed, muddle-headed but determined.
Outside the sky was painfully blue.
Ninesh pulled his sleeping bag over his head.
" Somebody turn off the sun," he moaned " what's for breakfast?"
" Lunch, you mean," said our friend climbing down the ladder from his loft bed, " it's 2 o'clock."
" Nesh," I shouted, struggling to sit up and hold my head at the same time, " we've missed our wedding.  We were meant to get married at 10 ."
From under the covers Ninesh groaned again.
" It's ok," said my friend, handing me a calming cup of coffee, " I phoned City Hall, they said if you are there before 3.30 you should still be ok to get married.  They don't close 'til 4. We can make it if we leave in the next 10 minutes."
Which is how come our wedding day found us hungover and gasping for breath, racing through Manhatten, me barefooted so that I could run faster,  diving on and off tubes and trains, arriving just in time to get married before the office closed for the day.

City Hall, New York

And all I can remember thinking as I sat on the train watching the Manhatten skyline speeding by, is how lucky I was not to be wearing a beautiful, priceless dress. 
Because the one thing you don't practice in any of the wedding shops, is running for the subway in your wedding dress.

Neither Ninesh nor I remember the date we got married but it doesn't really matter.
It was a long time ago and we are still together.
But the journey hasn't always been easy.
Like every couple, we have had our ups and downs.
There have been times when we have had to work hard at being together, work hard at being there for each other.
Understanding someone else is never easy, even when you love them.
Marriage is about compromise, about accepting each other for who you are and not trying to change each other into someone you are not. 
But in the end the effort has always, always been worth it.
Marriage is our prize that's worth fighting for.

Of course my friend found her perfect dress.
She stepped through the curtains and took my breath away.
She looked stunningly beautiful.
" It's like a red-carpet dress," she smiled.
And she was right.
And I know, on her wedding day everyone will cry because she will look so beautiful and her future husband will feel like the luckiest man in the world.
But a wedding lasts just one day ( or sometimes just a few minutes! ).
A marriage is for the rest of your life.
So here's hoping that the rest of their life together is one long red carpet of dreams and love and happiness, even if they are only wearing ripped jeans and old T-shirts as they walk along it.