On romance

It all starts with a beginning. With that first opening line… the perfect one from which the following lines flow seamlessly and effortlessly. I spend an age agonising over it, writing and rewriting, sighing and deleting. For there is none so perfect as the opening line in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. It is a line to aspire to, to dream of, to fall short of. Then there’s the wit and the ability to draw a character in the space of a few short sentences. Her turn of phrase. The romance of it all. Yes, it is by far and away my favourite book. I return to it regularly as a salve against the inequities of the world. I have even seen most of the Pride and Prejudice movies, including the 1940s one in which they wore crinolines. Yes, indeed! And in which, travesty of all travesties, Lady Catherine supports the marriage of Lizzie and Darcy. I mean… really?

Notwithstanding my admiration for Miss Austen, I don’t think of myself as a true romantic at heart. That is, until I go to weddings. Last May, my Cousin got married. Theirs is a thoroughly modern romance. They met playing World of Warcraft; their wedding invitation a riff on Commodore 64. Me either, until enlightened by the Boyfriend, who being a technical wizard himself got all the references. Off we went. My Cousin lives in a pretty village not far from Heidelberg, situated in a dip in a valley and surrounded by tall whispering trees. It possesses a requisite number of black and white half-timbered houses, whose patterns later rearranged themselves into Moti and Kockasto, the latter by way of circuit board diagrams from dimly remembered school physics classes. Who’d have thought it… physics… useful? The village even boasts a curiosity in the form of what everyone referred to as the Chinese house, a house indeed built by a Chinese lady with a nod to the style of her home nation and which, we were reliably informed, had not been constructed with the rigours of a German winter in mind. Being as I am from a country that in my experience has dependably failed to construct any house heedful of the weather, she had my sympathies. The effort to corral gaily whistling drafts happily swirling, pooling and eddying around a house is exhausting. My Mother pronounces them invigorating and congratulates herself on their efficacy in preserving her wood floors. I mutter into my muffler… and dream of moving to Spain. No such concerns for my fortunate Cousin. I envied her her insulating façade, wood burning stove and the glorious sunshiny day. Indeed, the sun obligingly kept shining for the entire weekend, the temperature a balmy 26°C, which for early May was rather unexpected I am told. The ceremony was held in the courtyard of a beautiful old Hof. The Mayor officiated. My Cousin arrived in a red 1950s Porsche speedster. The Boyfriend was almost overcome. The Best Man had just survived a very serious accident. We all pretended not to cry as they made their vows. We ate, we drank, we danced. The Boyfriend impressed by conversing in German. And wonder of wonders, my Aunt, herself a keen and talented photographer, even declared me photogenic. You will, I am sure, have noted how resolutely I refuse to look at the camera on these pages. I most assuredly do not like myself in pictures. It’s the nose, you see. And the chin. I could go on…

On the two following days, after good German breakfasts of cold meat, cheese, gherkins, fresh crusty bread, a superior cup of coffee [it’s the bottled water you know], and a glass of the local sparkling wine, we visited Heidelberg and the Schloss Schwetzingen, a palace renowned for the harmony and beauty of its gardens. Justly so. We spent several languorous hours wandering its shaded walks with a not so brief stop at its famous Bath House, a little gem of a building with beautiful marble floors, later to inspire Miru, and a grotto for a bath fed by snake shaped pipes. Though I must confess to not being too enamoured of the snakes. Even the visiting geese were picturesque if a little ill tempered. My Aunt was volubly upbraided by Mr for her impudence in taking a photo of Miss. He actually ran her off. Or attempted to. My Aunt was blithely indifferent to the ardour of his display but as it was no doubt intended for his Intended, all ended as it should. And how could it not, after such a beginning.

It was altogether the most romantic wedding I’ve ever attended, excepting perhaps even my own.