Gone fishing.
For our first proper wedding fair we’ve not only come two hours from home, we’re actually over the county border, in Devon. But the change of area means that as well as the regulars we’ve also got new exhibitors too, and the walled-garden location couldn’t be prettier, in the most low-key, on-trend way.
The Potting Shed is a newly-opened restaurant venue with a kitchen filled with starry chefs, set in a cluster of simple single-storey stone farm buildings below wide, shallow-pitched slate roofs. What makes it so special isn’t just the converted cart sheds with their hewn-timber roof trusses, and the scrubbed stone walls that set off the simple designer furnishings. On the entrance side there’s a wide gravelled car park, with Casper’s fleet in a shimmery line on one side of the doorway, and the Brides Go Wild camper on the other, looking totally amazing parked sideways on to maximise the signage.
But the best is at the back, where the buildings open out onto a secret walled kitchen garden that was originally for the nearby manor farm. There are ancient apple and pear trees trained along the tall sheltering boundary walls, and the borders echo the origins. Here, the bursts of delphiniums, roses, peonies, and sweet peas are interspersed with sage and golden marjoram, with feathery leaves of dill and fennel growing next to climbing beans. And at the far end there’s a long rectangular stone-edged pond with lily pads and flashes of orange fish in the depths.
What’s even more special is that this is their first wedding fair since opening, and there’s so much buzz that people are coming in crowds, from all around.
I was so worried about not waking up for my 5am start that in the end I didn’t dare go to bed. Instead, I got ready then snatched a couple of hours’ sleep sitting upright on the sofa. But in spite of that, I’m not actually tired – in fact, there’s so much adrenalin pumping around my body, at this rate I might well stay awake until July. Driving into the sunrise was magical, chasing away the night-time shadows along the roadside hedgerows as I sped inland, with the scarlet ball of the sun coming up over the moorland horizon. Even though the air from my open van window blasting over my face was chilly enough to turn my nose pink, the pale cloudless sky and soft morning light as I wound my way along the narrow lane to the smart gravelled entrance was a promise of the warm day to come.
It’s almost as if Phoebe was watching Nic swap the signage on the roof, because I’ve had missed calls from her at the most random times. And as I arrive this morning and pick up my bag from the van floor there’s yet another, but my head’s too full right now to take on Phoebe too.
I might have been shivery early on with my optimistic bare legs and sandals, but by lunchtime as I make my way past the snowy display of Sera’s bridal dresses, and out of the huge open doors towards the pretty open-sided marquee out on the lawn and thread my way through the couples wandering outside on the grass, in the shelter of the garden I’m pushing the sleeves of my soft denim shirt dress up beyond my elbows, and undoing the top and bottom buttons for extra ventilation.
Now I’m getting into my stride as the person in charge of sorting the exhibitors out, instead of looking for trouble, I’m finding that if I keep walking around with my tray, the difficulties come to me as I pass. And if I’m handing out goodies as I go, people are much less likely to grumble, and easier to help.
As I go in through the open doors for my umpteenth circuit, I’m heading for Immie and Poppy who are standing by one of her lovely three-tier cakes. This one’s covered in pink ombré frosting and topped with white chocolate drips, and getting shedloads of attention.
‘Cupcake, Milla?’ Immie’s nothing to do with Poppy’s cake-making business, but she said she was damned if she was staying home for our first big fair.
I put down my empty tray and sweep my finger through the soft chocolate buttercream swirl she’s passing me. ‘I’ve been saving myself for this. It’s only my sixth.’
Poppy’s lips are twisting. ‘Don’t worry, they’re only a bite each, and you’re walking them off.’
‘You keep telling me that, and I’ll keep eating them.’
She catches hold of my free hand. ‘No ring today?’
I’m staring at my thin left finger. ‘Damn, in the rush I totally forgot all about it.’ I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the ring cabinet I’m standing next to. I pull the belt of my dress tighter and smooth out a crumple in the skirt. ‘Can you see I slept in it?’
Immie gives a chortle. ‘You’re so much my kind of woman.’
Poppy’s smile widens. ‘Oh, Mills, how did that happen?’
‘I got ready at midnight, then didn’t go to bed, that’s all.’ I pull a face. ‘But on the plus side, Casper’s remembered his ribbons, the canapés coming out of the kitchen are to die for, and there seem to be lots of people here.’ If I sound hesitant it’s because I can’t quite believe it.
Poppy’s grinning. ‘According to Jess, there are so many couples, Rory’s already rung Huntley and Handsome HQ and asked them to send more fizz.’ Her eyes are shining. ‘How does that make you feel?’
I think for a second. ‘Great … but worried it could all still go wrong.’ I smile, because this isn’t just about me. ‘There are so many amazing exhibitors, they deserve a fabulous day.’
Poppy nods. ‘Don’t forget to try Clemmie’s Little Cornish Kitchen afternoon teas out on the lawn.’
I give her a teasing nudge. ‘Are you bigging-up the competition?’
She laughs. ‘She’s done some fabulous weddings for us at the farm – her meringues are to die for.’
I’m scrunching up my cupcake wrapper and picking up my tray. ‘I’ll try them next time I’m outside. I’d better be getting on, I’m taking iced elderflower cordial round next.’
It’s one of those days when there’s so much going on that my head feels like it’s going to explode. And because my phone never comes out of my pocket and I’m passing the clocks on the wall at a run, I lose all track of time. When I finally get a chance to head for the pretty cake stands and curly metal tables and chairs under the white canvas tent on the lawns, the shadows are getting long, so it has to be late afternoon. And when I pull my phone out to check, there are four texts from Phoebe that I don’t have time to open.
Out on the lawn, the strings of ditsy floral bunting are swinging in the breeze, and beyond the marquee poles there’s the Little Cornish Kitchen owner, Clemmie, in a pretty orange tea dress, her auburn curls caught up into a bun on top of her head, handing out samples. As I head into the shade, I’m making bets with myself on how likely it is I’ll find a meringue to sink my teeth into rather than concentrating on where I’m walking. So when I run slap bang into a denim-shirted chest I’m kicking myself for being so careless. As a very familiar scent engulfs me and my head starts to spin, I’m silently cursing for not having checked my face or topped up my perfume since this morning.
‘Nic, what are you doing here?’
There are deep shadows in the stubble on his chin and his voice is low with laughter. ‘Looking for a free shower?’
I allow myself a full eye roll. ‘Not funny. Try again.’
