The Midsommer Chronicle

As remembered by the Keeper of the Grove

Lo, upon the sun’s longest journey and beneath a sky laced with Highland mist, the sacred grove did stir to life. The ancient oaks, their arms stretched toward the firmament, bore crimson and golden streamers that danced with the breath of day. Twixt their roots, the ground hummed with memory and anticipation, for a union was to be sealed—not merely of hearts, but of house and spirit.

This was no idle fête. It was the vow-day of Cabrina and Brian, and the grove I myself had fashioned—stone by stone, branch by branch—stood ready to bear witness. With glimmering lanterns strung from bough to bough, and ample space for dancing, for feasting, for stillness, the green hall awaited.

At Seven Bells

Cabrina, robed in simplicity and reverence, ascended to the high hill that crowns the grove. In her hands she carried not bouquet, but benediction: a ring of flowers offered unto the Goddess at the start of her path. The trees stood hushed, the fog curled soft about her, and no bird dared call—so sacred was her silence.

At Eight Bells

To that same hill came her maids, bearing travel bags and laughter alike. Within a hidden copse of trees, shielded by leaves and intention, they shed their daily raiment and cloaked themselves in ceremony. Gowns of soft moss green draped their forms—shades chosen to mirror the fine woolen trousers of the groomsmen, that all might enter the ritual arrayed in unity and lore. Their giggles and murmurs floated like doves as they took tea beneath the boughs and awaited the call below.

The Grove Gathers

Slowly, like dawn unfurling, the grove filled with kin and kindreds. Some had sent word ahead, others came drawn by heartstrings and starlight. Gowns of petal and velvet, cloaks trimmed with silver thread, and circlets of vine and pearl—each soul stepped into the myth made real. More than one sought my counsel: “Is this gown too pale? Is this braid elven enough to stand in her story?” And aye, each was perfect in their becoming.

A place had been prepared for the smallest hearts as well: Zooby babes wobbled through grass upon trikes, squealing with joy, while swings creaked gently and sandbox castles rose beside solemn oaks. No guest too small, no spirit unwelcomed.

At Ten Bells: The Elven Pier

Then came Cabrina and her ladies, descended from the hill like the morning herself. At their side was Brian, steady and radiant, clad in hues that echoed the grove’s embrace. Tokens were exchanged—small gifts between those who stood in love’s orbit—and then the gathering turned toward the water.

Beyond the grove lay the elven pier, adorned with bows of deep red and streaming ribbon, tied gently by Briana and my own hand. It is there I often take morning coffee, alone with breath and birdsong—but this day it bore vows.

There, between cloud and reflection, Cabrina in her champagne-colored gown stood beside Brian, and they spoke words older than stone. The grove fell still. The wind softened. They were wed.

At Three Bells: The Banquet

From the trees emerged tables heavy with harvest: roasted meats, bowls of jewel-toned fruits, breads torn warm from the hearth, and cups brimming with ale and wine enough to bless every heart twice over. This was no seated feast, but a moving thing—folk gathered in clusters, leaning close in joy, feet tapping to the lilting strains of fiddle and pipe. The laughter rose as sure as smoke through leaves.

As the Light Waned: The Honeyed Farewell

When sun dipped low and the grove gleamed gold, the final enchantment was unveiled: a yellow cake laced with honey-sour cream, its scent alone enough to hush the revel. Cabrina and Brian, with hands now bound and spirits joined, cut the first slice beneath the twinkling canopy. It tasted of blessing.

Two kind souls stepped forth into the quiet afterglow, tasked with gently guiding the grove into slumber—tidying not merely things, but the spell itself.

And I, the Keeper of the Grove…

…I bore witness, as I had dreamed. I laid the lights, tied the streamers, swept the stones. I built this place not simply for celebration, but for connection—for memory that roots deep.

And when the fog returns and the branches sleep once more, I shall recall the moss-green hems, the champagne gleam of a bride, the smile of a groom steady as oak, and the sound of laughter tangled in ribbons.

Soon, Cabrina shall speak in her own voice and time—and rightly so. But let this be my telling, penned in twilight, wrapped in ivy.