A New York Couple, Bamburgh Castle, and a Room Full of Game of Thrones Costumes.

Some weddings stay with you. This is one of them.

The phone rang on a Wednesday. By Saturday afternoon, I was standing in front of two strangers — now newly married — in one of the most cinematic settings in Britain. And they'd asked me to deliver their entire ceremony surrounded by genuine costumes from Game of Thrones.

Welcome to the most extraordinary wedding I've ever been a part of.

The brief

A couple from New York had decided to elope. They didn't want a long engagement, a big party, or a guest list to manage. They wanted each other, somewhere extraordinary, and a ceremony that meant something. So they'd booked Bamburgh Castle on the Northumberland coast — the vast, sea-battered fortress that's stood watch above the North Sea for thirteen hundred years.

The room they chose for the ceremony was, on closer inspection, full of genuine Game of Thrones costumes from the production. Westeros, basically, but with sea views.

And they had three days.

Not three weeks. Not three months. Three days from their first email to "will you marry us on Saturday?"

Saying yes

I said yes.

I'll be honest — there's a version of me that would have politely declined. Three days is, by celebrant standards, a terrifyingly short runway. Most of my couples spend six to nine months getting to know me, telling me their story, and shaping their ceremony together. Three days meant I'd have to compress all of that into about 90 minutes of intense conversation, then go away and write the most personal piece of writing I'd produced all year, in a single weekend.

But everything about how they wrote, what they wanted, and how they spoke about each other told me this was right. They'd flown across an ocean for one quiet, beautiful moment. The least I could do was give them the words to match it.

Writing a wedding in 72 hours

We had one long Zoom call — no time wasted — where I asked every question I'd normally space across three or four months. How they met. The proposal. The families they were leaving behind for the day. The in-jokes. The things they couldn't quite say to each other yet.

I took notes feverishly. Then I disappeared.

What I'd learned in five years of writing ceremonies is that great doesn't actually take six months. Six months gives couples time to feel relaxed, to think, to come back to me with refinements. But the writing itself — the part where I sit down and try to put their story into words that sound like them — that part takes a focused weekend.

So that's what I did. Saturday morning I sent them the draft. Saturday afternoon they sent it back with three small tweaks. Saturday evening it was ready.

Bamburgh, on the day

If you've never visited Bamburgh Castle, do. It is colossal — perched on a basalt outcrop, with views across to Holy Island and the Farne Islands, and the kind of sea air that clears you out completely.

I arrived early. The team at the castle were brilliant — exactly the warmth and competence you want when there are exactly three people involved in the ceremony, and one of them is technically optional.

The room was extraordinary. Stone walls, dim light, theatre-quality costumes from Game of Thrones on display all around — Cersei's gowns, Jon Snow's furs, the cloaks and crowns and weight of fictional Westeros. The couple, unsurprisingly, had dressed for the occasion in a way that suited the room.

And then we got married.

There were no guests. No best man, no maid of honour, no rows of relatives. Just the two of them, looking at each other, with me reading words I'd written 24 hours earlier — words that were, somehow, theirs.

What I learned

Three things have stayed with me from that day, and they shape how I work now.

Elopements are the most underrated ceremonies in the wedding industry. A couple alone, in an extraordinary place, fully present — there is nothing else like it. No politics, no seating plan, no parents-of-the-couple anxiety. Just love, and a setting that does most of the emotional work for you.

Speed isn't always a problem. Most of my couples genuinely benefit from months of conversation. But for the right couple, with the right energy, a fast process can produce something just as personal — sometimes more so, because the urgency strips the writing back to what actually matters.

The setting matters more than I used to think. I'd always known atmosphere counted, but Bamburgh proved it. When a place has that much gravity — thirteen centuries of history, an ocean below, light pouring through ancient windows — your job as a celebrant is to write something simple enough not to compete with it. Restraint, not flourish.

If you're thinking about an elopement of your own

Eloping isn't running away from your wedding. It's running towards the bit that actually matters — the two of you, deciding to be married. Everything else (the venue, the readings, the symbolic acts, the music) is there to support that single moment, not the other way round.

I write bespoke elopement and intimate ceremonies regularly across Yorkshire and the North East, at venues from coastal castles to country house estates to private homes. Whether you're flying in from New York or driving down from Edinburgh — three days' notice or twelve months — every ceremony is written from a blank page around your story. No templates. No two ceremonies the same.

And occasionally, just occasionally, a room full of Game of Thrones costumes.

If that sounds like the kind of wedding you want, drop me a message. The first chat is free, on Zoom or over coffee, with absolutely no pressure. I'd love to hear about you.

Richard (plus Mabel and Freddie — the dogs, who'd love to attend an elopement in spirit)