French toasts

When an invitation to a wedding in France comes your way, you snap it up with a ‘Merci beaucoup!’. The last one I went to – my cousin Hugh’s to his Breton bride Josseline, in the 1980s – was something of an adventure, with the entire Langmuir clan making the road trip from Scotland via minibus (and a somewhat mechanically unsound one, at that). This time there’s Eurostar and the Tunnel and Paris in less than three hours.

Home from home

The invite comes from my partner Chris’s Uncle Kevin, whose daughter Justine is marrying her fiancé Alexis. Justine and her sisters, Prudence and Charlotte, have a French mother and grew up near Versailles. The wedding venue, though, is being held close to another famous palace, Fontainbleau.

As expected, the train journey is almost seamless and we arrive in a fraction of the time it has taken Chris’s mother and two sisters, who’ve driven out from London. We’re staying at the Hotel de Londres, right opposite the palace gates.

The Madigan clan

The wedding is at five that afternoon so we change and set off in a taxi, winding through the royals’ former hunting forests, the rolling countryside, sleepy villages of golden sandstone, until we finally arrive in the sleepy village where le mariage is being officiated.

Here comes the bride

Outside the town hall, or mairie, proceedings unfold a little like an extended take in one of those stylishly low-key French movies. The hall only holds about 30 and there are more than 100 guests, so people are craning through open windows for a glimpse, while those inside lean out to tell everyone to shush, there are children scampering between grown-ups’s legs, at one point a small dog stands on the threshold, wagging its tail and being petted by the guests. Mostly people are catching up with each other outside, until the newly married couple emerge, to delight and cheering from all.

We're married!

The ‘do’ is being hosted by the groom’s father, a former landscape architect who has lovingly and painstakingly converted a beautiful old mill nearby. Pa cranks up the wheel for us and we watch it splashing round through a glass panel in the floor above. The stream feeding the mill wheel is bordered by lush grounds and the guests trickle through and fling themselves onto chairs in the marquee, or onto the soft grass if they're feeling a little more informal.

Millwheel action above the venue

Evening sun on the courtyard

There’s a whole menagerie of animals, too, from swans and geese, to sheep and donkeys – one donkey is so antisocial it is kept in a field on its own and even interrupts the groom’s dad’s speech with a guffaw. 

Petting zoo

The aperitifs and canapés go on and on. The heat is intense, too – about 28-29 degrees. Just when we think we’re about to be called to take our seats, a chef arrives in the courtyard and begins frying fresh foie gras and another round of amuses bouches ensues.

Foie gras canapés being prepared

We eventually sit down around 9pm and the first course (of four) is served at 9.30pm. Following speeches and video clips and a Mr & Mrs quiz show, the final course of cheese and a chocolate fountain comes out at midnight and the dancing begins. Our taxi takes us off at 1.30am but we find out the next day that the DJ didn't down tools until 5am. Sacre bleu.

Later that evening…

As if the previous day’s hospitality was not lavish enough, today there is another party, with a Turkish theme. Couscous, stuffed vine leaves, lamb tagine, houmuos and a barrel of beer that Uncle Kevin has ordered for les Anglais. 

Moroccan-themed Sunday brunch

In France, you're never far from an edible snail

Now the key festivities are done and dusted the major players have the chance to cut loose and lark about. Alexis the groom ends up in the river a few times, and his father and chums imbibe with gay abandon, ensuring that Pa at least has to retire early. The food keeps on coming, which makes it hard to leave.

…and relax