I am well on my way to the perfect wedding having spent the past few weeks scouting out hotels up and down the country for the most idyllic venue for the wedding.
 
Of course, there were a few hairy moments along the way and Ignatius locked horns with me and Mum on more than enough occasions over various different items, but we made him see sense and so the magnificent Sandtown Springs Hotel and Spa is reserved for, dare I say it, the wedding of the year!!
 
My sister Rianach has finally accepted the fact that her sibling is getting hitched ahead of her (I think there was some sort of financially-based blackmail element from Mum although both parties vehemently deny the accusation) and has become more than involved in the preparations.
 
Last week, me, Mum and Rianach leafed through the endless pile of glamourous glossy literature that Mum had requested to be sent to the house.  We short listed the five frontrunners, pinpointed them on a map and I presented the findings to Ignatius.
 
Cue our first venue-related disagreement.

"What about the Fox 'n' Fiddle Inn in Mournamore?" he offered managing not to break into laughter.  "A few of the lads got married there, it's a great spot and they let you have a sing-song all night, it's some craic..."
 
As I realised this absurd suggestion was not a joke and his tongue was not, as I had initially thought, lodged in his cheek, my expression changed. His voice tapered off as the frown on my face and glare of my eyes finally registered with his functioning-under-par brain.
 
Without me having to say a word he swiftly eliminated the option from the conversation as quick as it had been introduced. As I regained composure and showed him the literature of the 5* establishments where we could be celebrating our nuptials, he caught me off guard. "You know, the Ballyruffaigh Hotel is supposed to be getting an upgrade to make it a 5* within the next few months. It's 15 miles from Mournamore and it has always got great reviews. Why don't we book an appointment to see it?"
 
I didn't want to start a squabble as this was supposed to be a cheery task so I reluctantly accepted the Bally-rough proposal with clenched fists and gritted teeth and made a vow to myself that I would stay at least 15 minutes before I shot the hovel down.
 
The six finalists roughly fell into three hotel categories. Rianach, who was behaving like a fully-fledged wedding planner, had organised the venue portfolio with military-like  precision.
 
We would take a trip to see the three north-west based hotels situated in the Sligo/Donegal area before moving down to the famous Clifton Towers and Castle in Galway.
 
Rianach had taken control of the bookings and organised accommodation for her and Mum and me and Ignatius. She had booked wine tasting sessions, food sampling appointments, hotel tours and tours of the surrounding environs.  
We had the head chef from each of the hotels personally serve us our lunch explaining precisely what we were about to ingest and how it has been cooked from scratch. We even had the hotel managers at our beck and call.
 
I have to say, Rianach did well.  I wonder how much it cost Mum...
 
All four hotels were utterly majestic. They all offered impressive
menus, mouth watering wine lists, silver service, splendid accommodation and striking surroundings that would do us proud in the photos. During lunch in the Clifton Towers and Castle, I was so impressed with my starter, a creamy brandade of salt cod with garlic croutons, that I almost reserved the hotel for my wedding. That was until my Mum and Ignatius stepped in.
 
My mother and Ignatius were far from best friends, indeed for my Mum, Ignatius was merely the vehicle that was providing her with the opportunity to boast and brag about her daughter's looming nuptials. They rarely saw eye to eye but they were firm and unwavering that the wedding venue decision should not be made on a whim.  
 
Despite the apparent appearance of unity, I knew that they each had their own agenda.  Ignatius wanted me to see the hovel in Carlow and Mum had her heart set on the swish Sandtown Springs Hotel and Spa in Co Wicklow. These constituted the second and third venue category.
 
If I'm being entirely honest, there was a warm, homely feeling about The Ballyruffaigh Hotel but I daren't tell anyone that I actually liked it.
 
My Mum and Rianach had travelled back home to Dublin forgoing the trip to the soon-to-be-Carlow's-top-hotel. Both had taken me aside before we left Galway warning me, in their own unique manner, not to do anything "rash".
 
"Darling the Sandtown's where it's at," my Mum offered trying to be hip, "don't get carried away until you've seen all your options.
 
“Remember Tullia got married there?  And remember how you thought her wedding was great?  This is your turn to shine darling, and at the Sandtown no less!"

Rianach was less gentle.  
 
"Try not to ruin this for yourself like you ruin everything else," she spat.  Her face, having been used to such vitriol, barely winced as she spewed out the words. "See if you can get one thing right in your life. If you decide to get married in a dodgy, substandard, country hunting lodge, you will be a huge embarrassment to this family and will be looking for a new bridesmaid." I didn't say that I was close to looking for a new bridesmaid anyway.  For once, I kept my mouth shut.
 
Unsurprisingly, Ignatius loved the Ballyruffaigh, as did his mother who he insisted accompany us to the appointment.
 
I managed to maintain my composure in the face of blatant provocation over dinner. Anne spent the meal listing the virtues, or certainly what constitutes a virtue in Mournamore, of the hotel as though on a one-woman quest to secure the imminent fifth star for the hotel. "Now, look at those table cloths," she would say, bending over to rub the material against her cheek. "Them's gorgeous! Son, feel that table cloth..."
 
The chairs, the curtains, the service and the food were all singled out for adoration by Anne who was behaving as though it was her first visit outside of a mental institute.  
 
I half expected her to jump up and down on the bed when we were shown the bridal suite, however, she managed to retrain herself.
 
As Ignatius and I chatted to the manager, a helpful young lad eager to secure our wedding in their comparatively dull books, I noticed Anne wandering down the corridor touching the walls and looking around in awe, like an alien that had crash-landed in these entirely foreign surroundings.
 
I felt bad momentarily that I was grateful she would not be accompanying us to the grandiose Sandtown Springs. However, that feeling was indeed fleeting, as I soon grew excited at the prospect of being wined and dined at Ireland's premier wedding venue.
 
The Sandtown was everything I expected and more. Luxury and opulence are the buzzwords at the sprawling estate on the coast in Co Wicklow and Jeffrey, the hotel manager, had me entranced from the minute we arrived with his endearing mid-Atlantic accent.
 
Ignatius was bowled over by both the establishment and the attention we received when we got there and appeared to spend much of the time in a state of shock. I didn't want Jeffrey to think we were new to this type of lavishness so I let Mam and Rianach take over negotiations as I tried to talk Ignatius back into mental consciousness.
 
Ignatius loved the hotel but was concerned about the financial aspect. The hotel was out of his league and we both knew it; if he sold his family home in Mournamore, it still wouldn’t cover the expenses.  We had a good chat about it and I told him that my parents would cover the costs no matter where we decided to hold the wedding as it was their a gift to us. After a few compromises and a long hug, he went off to the bathroom and I searched out my partners in crime to tell them the good news.
 
As I was passing one of the function rooms, a hand reached out and trailed me off my feet and into the room. As I tried to find my voice, another hand was slapped across my mouth.  My mother stared me in the face and as I wrestled with Rianach’s grip, my mother began to shriek in a loud yet whispered tone.
“The Shanahan-O’Rourkes are here!” she disclosed as though she had just announced that there was a killer on the loose in the hotel.
 
The Shanahan-O’Rourkes were a respected family at the helm of Dublin’s social circuit.  With a job in investment banking being almost a birthright in the Shanahan-O’Rourke household, Mum always thought that matriarch Andrea looked down on families not born into money as they were i.e. Us.
 
“They are here with their daughter Ceallach, apparently she wants to have her wedding here. They asked if you were going ahead with a booking and I didn’t know what else to say so I said yes and ordered Jeffrey to take a deposit from your daddy’s account. Please don’t be angry!”  
 
 As I peeled Mum’s hand off my face and shrugged Rianach’s weight off my back, I told them Ignatius and I had decided that The Sandtown was our venue of choice before threatening to pull out if they acted up again during the wedding preparations.
 
I said this partly because I was angry with them booking the hotel for me but mostly because the bridal party dress-shopping day was looming and I needed both of them to be on their best behaviour.

To Be Continued…