About one million years ago, a glacier punched its way through the Wicklow Mountains south of Dublin, leaving behind a long, curved valley and two small lakes to remember it by.
Then about 1,500 years ago, a guy called Cóemgen settled in that same valley—by then unimaginatively named the “Glen of Two Lakes,” or Gleann Dá Loch—so he could live out a cloistered monastic life. Virtually nothing has survived about Cóemgen except for fantastical, sometimes amusing, legends. In one, he dropped a book in the lake only for a friendly otter to return it; in another, he rolled around in nettles to quell his carnal passions for a lovely maiden and encouraged her to do the same. (Girl, run.)
Cóemgen’s desire for hermitage backfired spectacularly, since he gained followers and fame, and well, here we are talking about him. By the 10th century the valley featured an entire “monastic city,” today a set of scattered ruins punctuated by a 30-meter stone tower. After the English showed up with their extremely weird language, Gleann Dá Loch became “Glendalough,” and Cóemgen became “Kevin.” That’s right: on the longest possible timeline, I’m this guy’s namesake.
That’s all a mildly interesting history lesson, but Saint Kevin was completely incidental as to how Kiki and I found ourselves getting married in his old stomping grounds, of all places, last week. Despite our love of the stage, neither of us was in the mood for a big wedding; instead, Kiki had the lovely idea that we should elope with our two sisters, hers and mine. Ireland was a logical choice, since my brother-in-law Stephen is Irish1. When I floated the idea to Margaret she immediately recommended Glendalough, where her good friend Susanne owns a retreat venue called Glendalough Sanctuary. So the parts of the wedding fell into place like magical Lego bricks.
Kiki and I took an exploratory trip in May to get a feel for the place. We rented our right-hand car and drove an hour south from Dublin along typically Irish roads—narrow, curving, gorgeous—and arrived at Glendalough Sanctuary, just up the hill from the monastic city, with views of the fields and sheep and ruins below.
The next day, we explored the valley. The ruins and lakes are picturesque as hell, but we spotted an obvious problem: it was crawling with tourists like us. Where could we have even a short wedding with a modicum of privacy?
But Glendalough had one more bit of magic for us. Susanne led us down the road a bit and helped us climb over a fence into a sheep meadow. We crossed the field, climbed over a second fence, and standing apart from the other ruins was St. Mary’s Church, the oldest surviving structure at Glendalough. Despite the busloads of tourists only steps away, it was empty and quiet, like it had been waiting for us for a thousand years.
We were already sold on Glendalough, but now it felt predestined in some way.
Back in Amsterdam, we arranged all the things you need for even a tiny wedding—dress, food, hair, makeup, photographer. In no time the week arrived: we packed Kiki’s poofy dress into an enormous suitcase, and back to Glendalough we went, waving to the sheep in every field we passed and hugging Susanne hello. Just as we arrived, her right-hand man Paschal was hard at work building a table extension for our wedding-night dinner, the first of a dozen tremendous acts of kindness they showed us over the week. Five stars aren’t enough for this place.
Soon after arriving, we had our first couple’s activity: a meditative sound bath. This is well outside my usual range of leisure activities, but was a great way to connect with each other and take a step away from the corporeal world. A wind storm howled angrily outside, which was distracting until I realized: all of it—the practitioner’s ASMR music, the wind through the trees, Kiki breathing next to me—was part of the sound bath. (I only fell asleep a little.)
Afterwards we drove to a painfully charming local pub to meet Margaret and Stephen, who were having a pint with Susanne and a few other Irish friends. The funniest part of the evening was running to the corner nightshop for fried fish and eating it as finger food in the parked car. From the sound bath to this: a perfect wedding-week evening.
On Tuesday afternoon, Kiki’s family showed up—Mima, Louis, and the nieces Layla and Sophie. Seeing everyone meet each other for the first time was of course a high point of the week (and a bit surreal, as it always feels when worlds collide). Fully assembled, we walked down the hill and over the fences to St. Mary’s Church, where I led a brief wedding rehearsal (spoiler: shoulda rehearsed more). That evening we had a fantastic dinner at the Wicklow Heather, and sitting there next to Kiki with the two sides of the family chatting happily, I felt like a millionaire.
Then it was Wednesday, the big day. There was an excellent brunch and an errand to get a bouquet. Back at the sanctuary, the ladies all took their turns in the hair and makeup chairs, and came out looking like supermodels—an easy task when they were all six-foot stunners to begin with. I wished in retrospect that we’d done the “don’t see the bride until the wedding” gimmick, cause Kiki woulda knocked me over backwards.
Cars honked at us in celebration as we walked back down the road and crossed the sheep meadow for the third time. The tulle of Kiki’s wedding dress had collected an entire Glendalough ecosystem—twigs, leaves, live bugs—by the time we got to the church. Setup took only minutes (tiny self-run weddings have their advantages) and then it was go-time.
Weather had been a concern, of course—that church hasn’t had a roof in centuries—but Saints Mary and Kevin were smiling upon us. The sky was a lovely gray2 and the rain was elsewhere as we walked down the aisle to “Three” by KT Tunstall, preceded by Layla and Sophie tossing rose petals. First the nieces realized they were out of position and switched sides; then Kiki and I realized and did the exact same thing. There was a lot of awkward shuffling for a 15-minute ceremony.
Margaret welcomed everyone—ourselves, and also the “saints, the snails, the swallows, and the sheep”—to that holy place. She shared messages that she’d collected from our parents. Our nieces each gave a reading—an Irish blessing from Layla; a Taylor Swift lyric from Sophie. (Perfect, no notes.)
Then we exchanged vows. Kiki had requested to go first since “I’m the writer,” then she immediately proved herself wrong by doing an amazing job, listing the things she loved about me and about us, and listing her promises. My favorite: “I promise to keep doing bits. They are going to be so dumb, I swear. The dumbest, dumbest bits.”
Then it was my turn. I was really proud of what I’d written and looking forward to reading it, but I immediately botched that by bursting into tears from the opening line. (I know, I was probably the only person who actually cared.) Key quote, courtesy of Rob Delaney on “Catastrophe“:
This life wasn’t even on the menu. There was no menu! It was like one of those restaurants where the chef decides what you’re going to eat. Then they bring you something unbelievably delicious, and you realize they know better than you could ever know, and you never want to go to any other restaurant ever again. Fuck menus!
And finally, by the authority vested in her “by absolutely no one,” Margaret declared us husband and wife. We kissed, newly married.3
Short, simple, and perfect, just like we wanted. Kiki was proud of not being a bridezilla; pretty sure I wasn’t a groomzilla. Of all the things that could go wrong, the worst things were missing our outro musical cue (Dolly Parton, “Why’d You Come In Here”) and forgetting to change my shoes (I got married in sneakers). Neither the few people present, nor the saints, snails, swallows, nor sheep, really minded.
The week wasn’t over—there was a fantastic catered dinner and Irish breakfast on Thursday morning, then Kiki and I spent a charming 24 hours in Kilkenny before flying home. (When the Kilkenny hotel clerk found out we’d just gotten married, she gushed her congratulations and left cakes, pastries, and a card in our room. God bless the Irish.)
I don’t know how destination weddings normally go; I would assume many couples rarely or never actually return to the venue. Not so for us. When she recommended Glendalough, Margaret called it her favorite place on earth. And now, of course, it’s one of ours. We’ll be back soon. You should go, too! But you won’t have as good a time as we did.
