Twenty minutes later, having both fallen over a few more times, and getting to the point we were dragging the case rather than carry it, we turned a bend in the drive to arrive finally at the place we’d come to get married.
“It’s smaller than I thought it would be,” Gabi said.
It was on the bijou size for a castle, admittedly. I don’t think it was built in the middle ages to actually fight anyone. Probably some laird’s hunting lodge, or a Glasgow industrialist’s weekend pad.
“But it’s pretty,” Gabi added hastily. A number of the mullioned windows were lit with warm golden light and music was clearly audible from inside now. We struggled up the steps to the large door.
“Good knockers,” I remarked to Gabi, about the pair of massive cast iron door knockers, gargoyle faces with huge rings
