Another milestone ...

The photo of the rainbow over Cracroft Farm has nothing to do with this post, but it seems appropriately celebratory. Thirty years ago tomorrow (10 September 1990) Cath and I got married in the chapel at the University of Glasgow.  Frankly I am amazed that we made it to one year of marriage because, as in the old proverb, the course of true love did not exactly run smoothly to begin with.

We met in a champagne bar in London. A friend and I had arrived early for our drinks appointment to meet the younger sister of another mutual friend. I was struck dumb when this drop-dead gorgeous young woman walked in. There was just enough of a family resemblance for us to recognize her. She paused at the entrance and then strode over to where two young merchant bankers were sitting at the bar already half destroyed by champagne cocktails. “Are you Stan and Patrick?” she asked. “No …” replied one of the disheveled bankers, “but we could be!” We quickly extracted her from that encounter and then I recall sitting for the rest of the evening grinding my teeth and being consumed by the green-eyed monster as my friend entertained Cath with his urbane charm. I don’t think I said a single sensible thing all night. 

How I ever persuaded her to go out with me after that performance I will never know...

Then there was the disastrous proposal. We had dined at the very expensive Mures restaurant on Constitution Dock in Hobart and I had resolved to ask her at an opportune time during dinner. Of course, the right time just didn’t seem to come along and before I knew it we had finished the meal and were strolling around the beautiful Hobart waterfront. Still no right moment presented itself. We then arrived at an arbitrary traffic light right at the end of the waterfront and in desperation I just blurted out the question. A couple of years ago, my middle son took this picture and posted it as an Instagram story.

How she came to accept the proposal I will never know...

And then to crown it all was the third night of the honeymoon. After staying in a Glasgow hotel after the wedding we flew to Milan and stayed in a rather nice hotel in the centre of the city which I had booked in advance. Then, because I thought I was well-versed in European travel I hadn’t booked any other accommodation, thinking that it was easy enough to make it up as we went along. So off we went to Venice only to discover it was the week of the Golden Lion Film Festival and there was no room in any of the inns! We back-tracked 35kms to Padua but still no luck. In desperation we spent the third night of our married life on an overnight train to Rome, sharing a compartment with 4 little old ladies dressed in black who kept looking at us and alternately nodding and shaking their heads. Cath kept asking me if this was marriage was meant to be like.

How we survived that shaky start I will never know...

One of the many things our three sons have taught me over the years is that it is the journey that matters and not the destination. I probably tried to make out that it was me teaching them at the time, but the converse is definitely closer to the truth. The little ladies dressed in black in that overnight train kept pointing at us and whispering “viaggio di nozze” – which we usually translate as "honeymoon". Literally translated it means the “voyage” or “journey” of a marriage.

The one thing I do know for certain is that it has been the most incredible journey …