You’re probably well-versed in the lore and history of Gretna Green. It’s hard to be a historical romance reader without running into one couple or another who made a dash for the blacksmith’s anvil. Strangely enough, I’d never written a Gretna Green wedding scene into one of my stories, and I thought it’d be fun to incorporate one into Right Place, Wrong Duke. But I’m a contrarian at heart, so I set the story north of the border in Annandale, Scotland.
I’m probably the only one who finds that funny. But here’s the punchline: For all its legendary status as a hub of matrimony, there’s nothing particularly special about Gretna Green.
There, I said it. The truth is out.
English people eloped to Scotland because Scottish marriage laws were less restrictive than England’s. But Scottish laws applied everywhere in Scotland. Gretna just happened to be the first village a traveler encountered when crossing the border along the most heavily traveled road from England to Scotland. There were other places along the border that served a similar function—the Coldstream Toll House to the east, for example. I’ve used that location in a story or two.
But there’s no denying the mystique lies in Gretna Green. Much like those drive-thru Elvis wedding chapels in Vegas, an entire industry grew up around quickie marriages there. Even if you were already standing on Scottish soil and could be married according to Scottish law anywhere for miles around—at an inn or a church or a tavern, for example—you might still choose Gretna Green if you were nearby because the town was set up for it.
Remember the blacksmith? He was basically the Elvis-impersonating officiant of his day. Why him, you might be wondering. A couple of reasons. First, the location—the smithy was the first stop north of the border. Secondly, for marriages to have some legitimacy on both sides of the border, a witness was needed, the more reliable the better. A blacksmith was well respected by his community and present at his smithy from morning until dark. Could the innkeeper act as a witness instead? Yep. How about a stonemason or a local landowner? Sure. But in Gretna Green, elopement was a systematized business. Which is how a blacksmith became Elvis. Er, in a manner of speaking.
And that’s how a not-particularly-special pocket of Scotland made a name for itself—location, word-of-mouth marketing, and a little Scottish ingenuity. Two hundred years later, the Old Smithy still stands, and over 4,000 marriages take place in Gretna and Gretna Green every year. For a place that’s all about quickie weddings, they’ve had remarkable staying power. In my book, that’s a story worth celebrating.
*All images courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Elisa Braden 