My Husband Proposed to Me in Scotland — and Organized a Surprise Wedding the Next Day
After our car swerved into a shallow ditch to avoid an oncoming truck on the narrow roads of the Scottish Highlands, my boyfriend, Jack, crossed the street toward the only building we’d spotted for miles — a charming thatched-roof inn. He was looking for cell service to contact the rental company that had promised roadside assistance within 45 minutes.
“What do you mean it’ll take three hours?” I heard him shout. “I’m on my honeymoon!”
This came as a surprise to me.
“That’s not a cool lie!” I shouted through the passenger window while rummaging for a tube of Dramamine in the glove box. The scenic, winding route through Glencoe, a stunning valley shaped by an ancient volcano, had been breathtaking but left me feeling queasy. My boyfriend shot me a concerned glance, having forgotten about my keen hearing that easily caught his outburst from across the road.
It turns out I actually was on my honeymoon. While my hearing is sharp, my romantic instincts are a bit off, so it didn’t register until now, allowing Jack to breathe easy, knowing he hadn’t just ruined four months of meticulous planning.
Although Jack and I reside in Cape May, at the tip of the Jersey Shore, he’s originally from Paisley, Scotland. His family still lives there, and we make a trip at least once a year. I first said "I love you" in a guest apartment at his parents’ retirement community. After a chilly, exhausting red-eye flight, we snuggled under a purple nylon blanket. True to his rugged Scottish demeanor, Jack replied, "I love you too, but let’s not be one of those couples who say it five times a day."
Throughout our time together, Jack had never been one for sentimental moments. In the lowlands of the west, where he grew up in public housing and delivered milk six mornings a week at 3:30 AM, no one showered affection or uttered "I love you." Instead, love was expressed through playful teasing — over a soccer match gone wrong or a botched driving test.
This experience was, in every sense, a world away from the upbringing I would later have in Philadelphia two decades later. My mediocre drawings of trees and dolphins found their place on the fridge, and my poetry was read aloud at Thanksgiving dinners. Love wasn’t just implied; it punctuated every farewell: "I’m off to the store, love you." "I’m heading to bed, love you." "I’m picking up Chinese food, love you." I often fantasized about a partner who would sprinkle his sentences with such affection for me. Yet with Jack, I was more than willing to trade flowers and sonnets for his hilariously inappropriate jokes, spot-on Sean Connery impression, and a sense of adventure that consistently left me in awe.
I anticipated that this particular trip to Scotland would mirror our previous visits — a chance for Jack to reconnect with home and for me to marvel at every Highland coo in the Hebrides. We invited my sister and her husband to join us for the latter part of our journey, and my brother-in-law suggested we book a fancy dinner at an estate he had seen in a magazine. So, before we departed New Jersey, Donna, my sister, and I went shopping. "Let’s go all out for a fancy double date," she urged, handing me a long, Champagne-colored dress. “Let’s really surprise the boys."
Our trip kicked off with a 24-hour layover in Iceland — specifically, at the Blue Lagoon. Jack had arranged for us to enjoy massages in the water, but I worried that the relentless hailstorm would ruin our plans. However, I soon discovered that Iceland doesn’t cancel plans due to weather. Later, Jack and I smeared silicon mud on our faces, laughing at the red welts that appeared on our foreheads and cheeks.
The following days were a whirlwind fueled by haggis. We played pool with Jack’s friends from his time as a newspaper editor in Scotland. We savored fried fish and enjoyed sherry with Jack’s parents. We embarked on road trips through misty mountain ranges, home to golden eagles, Harry Potter filming locations, and, according to some, Camelot. On the day our car veered off the road, we were en route to Skye, a enchanting island filled with medieval castles and sheep. The three-hour delay meant we arrived just as the clouds turned pink over ancient cliffs that, from a certain viewpoint, resembled a pleated kilt. That evening, we dined at The Three Chimneys, a reservation Jack had made four months earlier. (And no, it still hadn’t registered.)
One early morning, Jack proposed on the doorstep of his brother’s house in Paisley. I thought I was being pranked, but when I noticed the sweat on his forehead, I realized this was no joke. "Of course!" I stuttered. But Jack wasn’t finished with his questions: "Will you marry me tomorrow?" He then opened the door to reveal my entire family and some close friends — he had flown them in on a red-eye. We celebrated with Champagne and a feast of Chinese takeout.
The ceremony Jack had organized for the following day was set at Ardanaiseig, an estate reminiscent of Downton Abbey that dates back to the 1830s, adorned with antique oil paintings and opulent gold couches. On our way to this charming mansion, he swerved (once again) off a dirt road to let a solitary cyclist pass, and we ended up stuck in a shallow ditch for the second time. I was already over an hour late for my own wedding — the GPS had not factored in those winding one-way roads — so, just a quarter-mile from the venue, my sister and I dashed through the Scottish drizzle. We burst through an ornate front door to find the hairstylist Donna had hired, looking at my rain-drenched hair as if to say, "Surely you can’t be the bride."
Education Images/Universal Images Group via Getty ImagesWe exchanged vows against a stunning backdrop of wild, vibrant gardens, majestic mountains, and a misty lake, with my brother-in-law officiating. A cousin captured the moment on a handheld camcorder while music played from someone’s phone. I wore the beige dress my sister had helped me choose — a tad tighter after a week of indulging in tattie scones and whisky. After the ceremony, all 18 guests moved into a private dining room for dinner.
My father delivered an emotional speech that highlighted even my middle school achievements, while my mother-in-law playfully teased Jack about the fit of his kilt and the petite wedding cake he had chosen. Then, instead of a traditional speech — to my mom's astonishment-turned-laughter — she sang the 1955 country song "You’re Free to Go," which addresses the theme of breaking free when love takes a different path. (When asked why she chose that song, she replied, "It’s the only one I know the lyrics to.")
Image courtesy of Diana StopryaImage courtesy of Diana StopryaHer performance prompted 14 other guests to rise and join in singing songs that had little to do with our marriage — or love in general. Later, under the cover of darkness, Jack and a few whisky-fueled members of the wedding party leaped into Loch Awe, which, according to legend, was once a magical well watched over by a mystical nymph.
The day after the wedding, everyone got up and hopped on a bus heading to the coastal town of Oban. We indulged in seafood, visited a 19th-century distillery, and — although we didn't realize it at the time — gathered some inspiration. Twenty-two months ago, Jack and I welcomed a baby boy named Oban (which means Little Bay). He’s already visited Scotland, where even the most reserved Scots couldn't help but shower him with affection.
And we, too, express our love for him — sometimes up to five times a day.
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5/5