I bolted down to the car park, or at least walked as rapidly as slick-soled ghillie brogues and kilt-constrained decency permitted. Within ten minutes I’d wound my way up Dunollie Road and out onto the A85 and was mentally high-fiving myself on making such good time; ten minutes after that, I’d pulled over at a petrol station and was engaged in a panicked, shouty phone call to Ruth to find out where, exactly, the wedding was taking place. (This, incidentally, is typical of my behaviour whenever I have to be somewhere really important at an absolutely non-negotiable time: I leave late, I have no idea where I’m going, and I interrupt the activities of someone who is even busier than I am with a pointless, recriminatory phone call. Just so you know.)

Rough directions now in hand, I took the turn off toward the Connel Bridge and followed the signs to Balcardine House Hotel. In the event I got there with about half an hour to spare. The manager showed me to a empty cottage behind the hotel where I could tune up without inflicting the attendant atonal cacophony upon the arriving guests; by twenty to two I was ready to go and pottered back round to the front of the hotel to await Kerri’s arrival.

And arrive she did in excellent style, deploying a queenly wave and a cheeky grin from the back seat of a puttering little Austin 7. Ruth, resplendent as a bridesmaid, helped facilitate a graceful exit from the diminutive car.

Katie snapped away as the bride got ready for her close up; bouquets were distributed; the car was parked off to the side; Kerri’s Dad came out to give her away, and I blew up the pipes’ bag in preparation for heading in, giving an accidental little squeak as I did so. “Sorry!”

Kerri laughed. We were finally formed up, line astern. “Are you ready?” I asked her. She was. I struck up the pipes (no double-toning! No squealing!) and started Highland Cathedral as we walked slowly through the main doors and into the hotel’s drawing room. I stepped off to one side at the back of the room as Kerri and her Dad walked up the aisle. I finished the tune and cut the pipes out cleanly.

Fuck yes. Part one taken care of.

It was a civil ceremony but one without the ponderously legal flavour that normally seems to prevail, and the registrar conducted it with good humour rather than leaden solemnity. Ruth and Katie read poems, with Katie improvising only a little at the end; the couple exchanged vows and rings and with that, they were married. And I had another tune to play.

I struck up again (no double-toning! No squealing!) as Kerri & Gordon came down the aisle and started Mairi’s Wedding, ironically playing it far better than I had done at my cousin Mairi’s own wedding a few years earlier. I led everyone through to the drawing room and continued to play as the guests followed the wedding party, surprising even myself by adding a couple of extra songs onto the end to keep going until everyone had arrived.

I finished up, got a little round of applause, and grinned. Part two done.

After an afternoon spent first wandering around the old hotel and then over at Kerri & Gordon’s house for some food, I begged off a little early so I could get ready for part three: playing the newly married couple into the evening’s ceilidh. This was always going to be the difficult bit. I’d suggested a song called Highland Wedding — a song that I’d never played before — on the strength of listening to a few recordings of it, and when I eventually clapped eyes on the sheet music, I was troubled. This is a difficult song. To put it in context of piping competitions, Highland Wedding is a Grade 1 tune, the highest level of difficulty, and to put my piping abilities in context, I’d never competed at any level whatsoever.

So, I practised it as often as I could, and I was moderately confident as I waited at the front of the Corran Halls for Kerri & Gordon to arrive.

When they’d arrived and we were ready to head in, I struck up the pipes to a barrage of squealing and double-toning. I stopped. I started again, to the same effect. I started a third time and they came in properly. I rolled my eyes to apologise, and led the three of us slowly through into the main hall.

It was excruciating.

I wasn’t bad as such, just messy, and I winced internally with each fluffed note or quavering tone. The guests were clapping along, evidently unperturbed by my erratic performance, but I was still desperately relieved when I reached the edge of the dance floor and could cut the song short at the end of the current part. The crowd clapped and whooped to greet Kerri & Gordon and I slunk over to the table where Jeff, Devon, Ally et al were sitting.

“Thank God that’s over,” I thought. “I need a drink,” I thought next, and proceeded to eat, drink and dance the night away. In spite of the 2.5-out-of-3 nature of my piping, it had been a great day. Congratulations, Kerri & Gordon!