Village wedding

Vernham Dean could be the dashing hero of a Mills & Boon novel. It’s actually the Hampshire village where my friend Steve grew up, and where he and Tanya are having their wedding.

Steve and Tanya both sing with the London Bulgarian Choir, which is decamping en masse to the countryside, turning one of the village’s cricket fields into a campsite.

Best wedding accommodation ever

With tents pitched and gladrags donned, it’s time for the do. The ceremony is a blessing, held in the village pond – now drained thankfully. Our friends have already tied the knot officially, but want all their friends and family to seal the deal, spiritually. This involves reading declarations out loud together, which has the bride dissolving into fits of giggles as she thinks of Life of Brian. ‘You are all individuals,’ she says. 'We are all individuals,' we reply. 

Here comes the bride

'We are all individuals'

True to country tradition, the reception is at Steve’s uncle’s pub, The George, with a hog roast and lashings of local cider. 

Chris takes on the cider challenge

Me and Tanya

Then it’s off to the village hall for a knees-up to a live ceilidh band and a slice of a wedding cake that four different people have baked remotely and assembled on site.

First dance

Wedding cake – with figs!

Next morning, breakfast for the campers is in the cricket pavilion that Steve’s father built, to do something positive for the community following the loss of his wife. It’s a lovely place to sing as we munch on our toast.

Mr East's pavilion

Breakfast tunes

A walk takes in a glimpse of the newlyweds at the window of their room above the pub, the atmospheric grounds of the local church – at the gate is an old water pump hailing from the river Clyde in Scotland – tree-lined brideways and rolling Wessex downs.

The newlyweds are sighted

Et voila!

Sunshine and graves

Pump it up

A last yomp before we head for home on the M4 takes us up to an ancient hill fort at Fosbury, for a little more singing and one hell of an album-cover shot.

Climbing up on Fosbury Hill

Walking the fort

Brighton rocks

It’s only when we settle down on the beach to eat our picnic, that we realise we’re not the only hen party in Brighton. I count at least six within the throw of a stone from the pebble beach we're sitting on. And we are to meet many more on our jaunt around town with my soon-to-be-married friend Tanya.

Tanya and friends

But it’s easy to see why it’s top of the hen-party pops. It’s taken us just one hour to get here on the train from London, and with sea breezes, wine-tasting and a comedy club on our itinerary, Brighton ticks all the boxes for 'best woman' Liz, chief organiser. It also delivers seagulls, in great abundance, requiring a swift cover-up on the beach when one of our hens is splatted with bird shit.

Seagull defences

Improvised protection

Next up is our wine-tasting party, where we sample a variety of wines and try to guess the grape and variety from a list. I get one right. What a lovely way to get yourself gently sozzled and find out, as Tanya comments, how little we all know about wine.

Through a glass artly

We finish our picnic grub in the grounds of the Royal Pavilion, the extravagant seaside retreat built for George lV when he was Prince Regent in the 18^th century. Designed by John Nash, the gloriously exotic palace mixes Regency trends with the visual style of the splendours of India and China, very much reflecting the flamboyant personality of the man for whom it was built.

Pavilion garden party

Brighton Komedia is the evening’s finale. A packed house lap up the comics on stage and roar with delight when a couple in the front row (what were they thinking?) are discovered to be on an illicit date. There are sharp intakes of breath from our table in response to one stand-up, who really misses the mark with some sexist drivel.

Laughs at the ready

On the way back to the train station, our hen is pulled into a pub to continue the rabble rousing.  With trains running into the small hours and home just an hour away, it’s surely what any hen would do.