Fr. Carney tapped on the lid of the coffin, which was now pulled to one side of the church aisle. ‘That’s for you tomorrow Ciaran’ he said, looking at me with a wink and a broad grin. I was anxious enough during the rehearsal, without any Fr Ted moments, and gave a nervous laugh. We were getting married in St. Eunan’s Cathedral at one o’clock the next day, slotted in after a early morning funeral. Fr Michael Carney was a novice curate and this was only his second wedding. This was our first and as the parish priest had refused to marry us, we were delighted to have him on our side. We had been through the obligatory pre-marriage course. A long weekend run by unmarried men guiding young couples on the road to a successful marriage. The irony of this did not go unnoticed by those in attendance.
I had no experience of weddings. I’d only ever been to one wedding before. My aunt Dorothy and Donal’s wedding in Donegal town when we were young. It was an early introduction to dancing from my mother.
“..the wedding dragged on, oul ones yappin, Mam was puffin on a long ashed red Carrols cigarette, hand under chin, smiling as she smoked. It was a day for catching up for them that hadn’t seen each other in yonks. We were wanes, no memories to catch up on.
The cake was cut and Aunty Dorothy was on the floor, being burled around to the first dance. The smell of beer on the uncles as they leant over to chat, one hand pocketed to balance the stout, was overpowering,  We’d spent the afternoon in chase, sliding on waxed floor of wood. We’d downed the Cavan Cola in rounds. Now the oul had retaken our floor, we laid back in sweat. “C’mon Ciaran…Shoo The Donkey”
My mother, who didn’t understand no when it came to dancing, grabbed my arm and off we went shimmying up the floor, arms crossed, skip twice, turnaround and skip back.
“Shoo the donkey, shoo the donkey, shoo the donkey back home”
One of my lasting memories of their wedding was when all the guests moved to the front of the hotel late in the evening and the wedding car being surrounded by Donal’s burly fishermen friends. Unlike now when most couples dance the night away, It was tradition then that the couple would officially leave the hotel at the end of the reception. It was quite a raucous send off. They proceeded to lift the car and rock it up and down as the driver attempted a getaway. I wasn’t the only one who though they were going to tumble it right there in front of the Central hotel.
On the morning of our wedding it was -7c as we left Carrick. It was November 1983. This had been one of the coldest winters on record. Dad was driving a Fiat Argenta, a large powerful car compared to the old Wolseley I remembered from my childhood. He was always a confident driver and we felt safe on with him.
I remember Dad driving me back to Letterkenny a few months earlier. We were coming through Barnesmore Gap, which back then was about the only decent stretch of road in the whole of Donegal. He went to pass a young driver in front who, in a dangerous move, sped up as he pulled alongside. Dad put the boot down again, nor willing to give in. I looked over at the speedometer, and then up at his increasingly sweating brow, then back to the speedometer. He was doing 110 mph as he finally passed them. I think we both aged 10 years on that journey.
On the morning of our wedding, Dad drove to Letterkenny via the majestic Glengesh, a busy double-parked Ardara, through sleepy Glenties and down the snowy tree-laden Meenaroy. He completed the journey in 55 minutes flat.
‘Something borrowed…’.  We were getting married on a budget. Margaret was working, but I was still unemployed. This was no ‘Big Fat Gypsy wedding’ We were both too thin and poor for that. Margaret, at my mother’s insistence, borrowed the dress my aunt Dorothy wore at the last wedding I attended. My cousin Enda, a keen photographer, had offered to take the wedding photographs. Our friend Jerome had offered to do the disco later that evening. My uncle Cathal was the official chauffeur, well he did have the biggest car on the day. My brother Seamus was best man. Margaret’s sister Denise was chief bridesmaid.
We had tried to keep the guest list short, but once all the uncles and aunts, friends from home and college friends were invited we were up to our oches with a maximum 180.
Our invitations went out a month before. I wanted to word them ‘Ciara invites you to the wedding of her parents…’ but the Ireland of 1983 may not have appreciated the dig.  Ciara who was just nine months, stayed with Margaret’s relatives in Inishowen for the day.
St. Eunan’s Cathedral was, and still is very ornate and quite dark inside. Built at the turn of the century, it’s Great Arch illustrates the lives of St. Eunan and St. Columba. The sanctuary lamp, which we would marry under, is made of solid silver and weighs nearly 7 stone. Some sculptures were created by William Pearse, younger brother of Patrick, both who would later be executed during the Easter Rising.
We were in the middle of the marriage service itself, exchanging the rings, and admiring the beautiful architecture, when young Enda finally turned up. His photographic skills were further challenged when his flash wouldn’t fire. I looked at him and smiled.
Wedding photography would be a big part of my life in later years. I loved being involved in the biggest day of many people’s lives. The interaction with the priest could vary wildly, from being told to get off the altar to be greeted warmly. One of the better ones was Fr. Eddie Gallagher, then parish priest in Glencolmcille. You got your monies worth with Eddie as many of his weddings went on for the best part of two hours. On one occasion at a wedding in the Immaculate Conception Church, Cranford, Eddie was celebrating the wedding of James and Pauline Ellis. The clerical changes had just been announced by the bishop and Fr. Sweeney, the curate in Glen, who didn’t always see eye-to-eye with Eddie, was being moved on. Fr. Eddie, who had a way with words, opened his homily, happy to see that the young bride was moving to live in Malinbeg after the wedding.
‘There’s no point having chickens’ he said, ‘ if they’re laying in someone else’s garden’
He finished by wishing the couple well. ‘I’m sorry Fr. Sweeney couldn’t make it here today, he was busy’. He paused. He looked around the small country church, making sure all his Glen congregation, who had travelled the two hours to attend the wedding were paying attention. With comic timing Tommy Cooper would have been proud of.
‘He was busy packing’  The congregation fell about the place.
Our wedding reception was held at the Three Ways Motel beside the Dry Arch in Letterkenny. A small dark brooding hotel, run by the Harvey family, long since replaced by The Clanree.
It was great to see both families there. A chance for my uncles and aunts to reunite with Margaret’s family who they stayed with in Carndonagh as children. My aunt Dorothy had just given birth to her second daughter Herta and had checked herself out early to attend. My dear Nana was there. I’d always felt very close to her. Nana was a small, warm hearted woman, who always had a smile for us. We visited her every Sunday without fail. All seven of us packed into our small family car on our weekly pilgrimage to Dunkineely. Mum would catch up on the local gossip with Dorothy over hot cups of tea. Dad would sit watching Bob Monkhouse on The Golden Shot on a black & white TV. “Up, up, up, STOP, left a bit, STOP, down a bit, STOP, left a bit, STOP . . . FIRE!”.  We’d wear ourselves out chasing each other around Nana’s small front room. Her sister Lizzy lived at home with her after their brother Patrick passed. Lizzy wasn’t used to kids being under her slippered feet. ‘Oh, you’s are mad funny’ she’d say before toddling off back to her bedroom.
I could feel my mother tugging at my jacket sleeve, trying to get me to sit down. I was in full swing during my unrehearsed after dinner wedding speech.
‘I’m surprised to see so many of you here today…’ I said, looking around the room. ‘….as we hadn’t intended inviting half of you’. My mother’s reaction suggested that my attempt at humour may not be appreciated.  The meal was great but our entertainment failed to show. There was no mobile phones and Jerome could not be contacted. The hotel management were very helpful. Hugo Duncan, “The wee man from Strabane”, was playing in the hotel later that evening. They arranged for him to play for an hour for us. It wasn’t our kind of music but we greatly appreciated the gesture. After the music, my dear Uncle Enda took over as master of ceremonies and recited the Four Farleys like never before.
‘Oh! if you’re that Francis Farrelly, your dreams have not come true, Still, Slainthe! Slainthe! Fransheen! For I like a man like you!’
Auntie Kay sang her heart out while Enda propped Aunt Lizzy up during her party piece. Our good friend Johnny Harte was joined by Buzzer Farren from Moville and Paddy Quigley from Clones, guys who shared our house, to sing on stage. Despite this, we remained good friends.
Margaret’s mother Frances, in a very kind and unexpected gesture, paid the hotel in full for the wedding.
Later, once the reception was over, we headed to the Golden Grill and the party continued back at our house in Sliabh Sneacht. I went off to bed ‘early’
I woke in the middle of the night to find Francie ‘Boobles’ Doogan trying to get into the bed. Both he and my cousin David shared the honeymoon suite floor that night. Enda slept between Margaret and myself.
It was that kind of day.
In her borrowed dress, Margaret still managed to look beautiful.  As she walked up the aisle with her father Danny Joe, there was no sense of the rush that had gone before. This was no shotgun wedding. We may have been setting out on a road less travelled but we were on that road together. We had no idea what the future might bring. There were no rules. We had broken away and created our own family. The next generation had begun. There was little about the Ireland of 1983 to suggest much would improve. Our role from now was to make the best of what we had and guide our children toward what would be, hopefully, a brighter future.

Ciaran Cunningham