Eleven years ago we met queuing for the wrong train, argued about it for an hour, and have been arguing happily ever since. We are getting married in the barn at the top of the Flint valley, with the river below and everyone we like best in one room.
It is a country wedding, so plan for grass underfoot and a long evening. The ceremony is short. Supper is shared down one enormous table, served in the middle for you to pass along. The band plays until the coaches come.
There is no seating chart to memorise, no speeches you have to sit through twice, and nothing on the day that needs a printed schedule — it is all on this page, and this page will stay up until the week after.