Gretna Green

The Foxes were in trouble. Big Trouble. The kind of trouble that a raised eyebrow cannot do justice to, even years later….

Like naughty teenagers, they had planned and plotted. Dates, times, cover for the horses, dogs, cats and chickens, a dinner date the day after with friends in Stanley Common.

The frozen snowfall glistened with promise and excitement. Mrs Fox sent a picture to the cub, a mountain of snow for her cub in the south to share, enviously drinking in the scenes that she loved.

The day unfolded in startling sunshine, the white glare of the snow sending sparkling light over the village as they arrived, bags of secretly made clothes stashed in the boot. They dressed with care, adorned in their velvety finery, and stepped smartly from the hotel reception.

The Blacksmith’s Shop stood waiting, timeless and yet immediate, full of history and promises.

The Foxes nervously sipped teas whilst they waited, attracting calls for photographs, comments of compliment as they sat. Mr Fox was tall in his burgundy velvet dress coat, his elegant top hat framing the edges of their pictures. Mrs Fox was wrapped in silk and velvet, draped around her, with petticoats rustling.

The ceremony over, they stood in the sunshine, wonderment awash.