A Honeymoon to Remember: Katie’s Journey from ‘No Marriage’ to Quietly Tying the Knot After 35 Years Together
Have you ever been kicked off a plane? I hadn’t—until this time last year. There we were, my partner and I, on the runway at Heathrow, about to take off for our dream honeymoon in the Bahamas. But just as I was settling in with my seatbelt fastened and the crossword in hand, a flight attendant tapped my shoulder.
“Could you show us your passport?” she asked. I retrieved it from the overhead compartment and handed it over. It had already been checked online, at the desk, and at the gate—so why the extra scrutiny now? Well, according to the flight manifest, there weren’t enough days left before my passport expired, and I was told I had to get off.
Despite the pilot’s assurance that there was no issue, the flight attendant was adamant: computer says no. And, to the slack-jawed amazement of fellow passengers, I had to collect my things, say a hasty goodbye to my partner, and deplane.
But here’s the kicker: this wasn’t just any trip. This was my honeymoon. After over three-and-a-half decades together, my partner and I, at ages 70 and 64, had finally decided to marry. Was this a sign? Was this the start of a new chapter, or a precursor to something more ominous?
It was almost too easy to dismiss marriage. When we first met in 1994, I knew he was The One—someone I wanted children with and to spend my life alongside. But marriage itself? It never really crossed my mind. While some women dream of walking down the aisle in a white dress, that image was never mine. The thought of marriage was always too formal, too rigid.
In my mind, marriage was more of an institution than an expression of love. My mother, a twice-divorced woman who left my father when I was young, always told me, “A bad marriage is a million times worse than no marriage at all.”
So why, after all these years, did we decide to finally tie the knot? Some might say it’s about the financial benefits—after all, only married couples can avoid the inheritance tax. Others might point to our children, three of whom are married themselves. Perhaps it was time to join the club. But honestly, I never felt the urge until our sons—especially the youngest—began to ask why we hadn’t yet made it official.
So, we did it. Quietly, at a register office in Oxford, with our son and his fiancée as witnesses. Later, we had a small blessing on a Greek island, with the kids and our close friends. The ceremony, in Greek and filled with incense, was moving. The chanting, the icons on the walls—it felt like something much deeper than I ever expected.
A year on, how does it feel? The same, in many ways, except now I have two rings on my finger. It’s funny—sometimes I still catch myself about to say ‘partner’ or ‘other half’. But as I glance down at my wedding ring, I’m reminded that this is exactly where I want to be. What seemed unimportant all these years now feels like a solidifying ceremony.
I’ve learned to appreciate rituals, the old and traditional ones, and how they bring a certain sense of security and continuity to a relationship. I used to scoff at the need for ceremony, but now I see the value in marking these moments. In a world where traditions can seem outdated or unnecessary, they give us something important: a way to acknowledge and celebrate love and commitment.
As I reflect on everything, I realize that happiness isn’t about searching for something more. It’s about wanting what you already have. And I do.
