This time, two years ago, the weather was identical. That soft perfect rainy English June country weather. The kind that marks Glastonbury and picnics and seaside holidays in the south-west. Warm-ish but with pretty insistent rain, sweeping in off the coast, creating magnificent clouds and strange darkness for mid summer. Where you feel as if you should be wearing rolled up jeans and boatshoes, or shorts and wellies, a jersey and a waterproof. A hat, maybe. Holiday weather.
This time, two years ago, we were wondering whether the marquee would actually fit on the lawn, buying beer and soft drinks as fast as possible and generally engaging in lots of wedding organising. In amongst all of this, a massive box arrived from a flower farm - brim full of peonies. The ones that day were all white, and we stored them in two box/bucket things, waiting for about 11pm when, finally, my mother and I turned them into bouquets (with the assistance of my Dad).
Today, the same box arrived at work. Slightly smaller, but containing 4 dozen peonies. Some white, some pink. Some barely breaking, most tightly wrapped. Some sit on my desk at work in a borrowed vase. The rest are in buckets at home, waiting to be arranged in enamel jugs. Two years ago, wedding over, we set off for Cornwall and our honeymoon with all the leftover peonies. I remember remarking at the time to Husband how wonderful the jugs of peonies were, and how in the future they would take me straight back to that wonderful two weeks in June. He remembered. They have.