In 1754 a quirk in the law had it that marriage in England had to take place in a church and those concerned had to be 21 years old or over. But in Scotland, the law, sponsored by Lord Hardwicke, didn't apply. There, you only had to be 16 and could be married by, well, pretty much anyone willing to go witness to the declaration of undying love. The tiny Scottish village of Gretna Green, which is within spitting distance of the border with England and was better known then for its blacksmith and forge, wasn't about to let an opportunity pass.
It wasn’t long before there emerged a posse of so-called anvil priests and assorted other freelance clerics – some qualified, many not, many charlatan chancers, a goodly few alcoholic parsons deep in debt – ready, willing and, as the loophole had it, quite legally entitled to marry anyone.
Gretna Green probably could not believe its luck and has certainly been dining out on the story in the 250 plus years since Hardwicke’s Marriage Act started it all.
Carl Clancy and his motorcycle partner Walter Storey stopped at Gretna in late 1912 on the Scottish-English leg of their pioneering around the world trip. Gretna Green then was little more than an unpaved crossroads, with a cluster of cottages, a brown sandstone chapel of the Church of Scotland and that blacksmith's forge. Clancy wasn't very impressed. He took a photo of "the ugly wayside chapel famous for its many elopements and the exciting chases of ardent lovers by heartless English parents and guardians . . ." And with that, he and Storey sped off on their Henderson motorbikes into the Lake District to the south.
Geoff Hill, Gary Walker and I hit the brakes on our BMW 1200 Adventures to take a closer look. Today Gretna Green is a hive of activity and enterprise. It's popular with retirement groups and tour parties. Around the original marriage forge (where about 1,500 weddings a year are conducted still) there are several gift and souvenir shops and cafes. A museum tells the story of the place and of the rather heartbreaking faith many had in the blacksmith matchmakers well into the 20th century.
A newspaper feature in the 1920s prompted letters to Richard Rennison, one of the last blacksmiths to perform marriages under a 21-day local residence rule that applied until 1940. "I am a lovely young woman," wrote one hopeful whose letter, like several others, is on a wall-mounted display case, "23 years old, tall, quite good looking. . ." A 26-year-old man from Edinburgh, who also thought himself "quite good looking, kind hearted and sporty" hoped Mr Rennison would find him a wife. Don't tell my parents, he urged, "as they would be very angry with me".
Inside the marriage room of the forge, the curtains are drawn as a guide hams it up for a group of tourists. “And,” she says with a flourish, “within the confines of this room, I declare you husband and wife” and there’s a solid lump hammer THWACK! on the metal anvil which goes PING! And soon the party emerges, delighted with their visit to the notorious village.
Where are you from? I ask a young woman who turns out to be Sharon from Haifa in Israel. Was there no rabbi available? I ask, and she giggles.
Were one to take it seriously, that little ceremony might have ruffled the feathers of at least two faiths, several branches of God knows how many churches and two nation states.
