It was a beautiful summer day in the country. The British country, that is. Picture it: rolling hills, stately mansions, posh morning suits, intricate hats. Why all my friends can’t get married in Britain, I’m not sure. The setting was right out of a Jane Austen novel with a pinch of cheeky Hugh Grant thrown in.

The large manor was set at the end of a long winding road, the kind that’s so narrow you actually inhale steeply when a car passes by yours. At the last bend in the road I spied the beautiful home that once belonged to the Singer family, who made the illustrious sewing machines. The property had sprawling grassy fields and grand trees growing in every corner – trees that were just asking to be climbed. In fact, I could hear their branches whispering to me.

I spotted Mark instantly. The twinkle in his eye could have been seen from Neptune. Imagine the impact it had when I merely spied it from across the room. I knew there was trouble to be had. It’s times like these that I believe I have a radar for trouble. And by “trouble” I mean no holds barred fun.

As the wedding progressed, and I indulged in Pimm cups and champagne, my desire for the Englishman grew. My sister, a girl who could give the Millionaire Matchmaker a run for her money, had a devious plan to get the two of us talking. She knew a perfect match when she saw one and had the skills to set up even the unlikeliest of duos without either being the wiser. All she said was “leave it to me.”

I disappeared to watch the impressive dance moves happening at the céilí in the ballroom (yes, this manor was big enough for a ballroom). I could only stand there for so long before my foot started to tap and I got the urge to be whipped around the room. The music took me back in time and I was now definitely re-enacting a scene from a Jane Austen book. It was between dances that I saw Mark slink through the door with a glass of wine in hand heading straight towards me. He handed me the glass, flashed a smile and twinkled his eyes as someone aggressively grabbed my empty hand for another dance. Foiled.

Eventually escaping from the madness, I set out to find Mark to thank him for the wine. I found him sitting alone on a bench outside. Perfect situation. I perched myself next to him on the cozy seat and we easily fell into a flirtatious conversation. Flirtatious in that we based our dialogue on taking the piss out of each other. Something Brits excel at is the wind up. He commented on my long legs and I responded with a jab at his shorter legs, stating that I would definitely beat him in a race. Challenge accepted. The perfect track was just feet away from us down the immaculate and moist lawn.

Now I was nervous. My big mouth had just gotten me into trouble. What is it with me and racing at weddings? This was not the first time I found myself in this situation. I could tell just by looking at him that he was speedy. He had the body of a football player (that would be soccer to you North Americans) and while my legs are long, they’re slower to get moving; especially after the cheese plate I had just devoured.

No backing out. We staked out the start and finish, found a couple friends to officiate (this race was serious business), kicked off our shoes and we were off. I had a great start but it was soon apparent that he had gazelle blood in him as he tore ahead of me at the halfway point. We collapse into the grass at the end together in a fit of giggles. Life should always be this much fun.

Walking back to the manor with our arms around each other, I spied the tree and its still taunting branches. Despite the darkness we were engulfed in, I suggested a tree climb. Why stop the childish fun at running? Climbing trees is not for the faint of heart. You have to become one with the tree, respect the great creature. Make each movement a calculated one, and never look down as you climb higher and higher. After four or so meters of ascent, we found the perfect niche to dangle our feet from. Here we sat and watched the festivities below, not saying much but enjoying each other’s company. Relishing in the satisfaction of making it to that point.

I couldn’t put my finger on what it was that drew me to this man. This young, fun, completely uninhibited man. Perhaps that’s all it took. He was carefree enough to have zero expectations. He was living in the moment, and it didn’t hurt that he looked like Jake Gyllenhaal and endearingly called me “Poppet”.

On the long bus ride back to the villages and farmhouses where the wedding guests were staying, Mark and I laughed in the back over our moments shared, while passing a bottle of leftover champagne back and forth. I didn’t want to end the night, but we both knew it was inevitable. He grabbed my phone before I departed and entered his number under the name “Speedy”, instantly carving lasting nicknames for us as “Slow” and “Speedy”. Despite the absence of a kiss, I’m still smitten.

I later found out that my sister had poured me the glass of wine and pretended not to know where I was. Mark had jumped up right away to say he would find me. The beauty of the matchmaker.

My Lessons from a Bar Stool:

Lessons for the Ladies:

1. Do not eat a plate of cheese and bread before a race. You will lose.

2. Meet men from abroad. They’ll offer you a refreshing take on the opposite gender.

3. Just because you’re dressed for a posh wedding doesn’t mean you can’t kick off your heels and have some fun.

Lessons for the Men:

1. Live in the present. Having a great time with someone, doesn’t mean you have to marry her.

2. Women are sneaky. You may think something is your idea, but it was all planned to a tee.

3. “Poppet” is one of the best pet names out there. Use it wisely.

-SA

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