“It’s only a small wedding.”

There is something wonderfully delusional about saying, “It’s only a small wedding.”

Thirty-five guests sounds so manageable. Intimate. Relaxed. One imagines barefoot ease and a few bottles of rosé chilling quietly in the background. What it actually means is that you will spend six days discussing extension cords, soup ingredients, weather radar, bamboo engineering and the emotional stability of lantern batteries.

This particular wedding felt very special to me. My friend, Michael, a humanitarian who has spent years making the world a better place, with Global Empowerment Mission, was marrying his Ukrainian love, Alina, who has lived through more than most of us can imagine. There was something deeply moving about the idea of creating a moment of beauty and calm for them on our tiny tropical island.

On Monday, we began. Endless amounts of candles were placed into tiny containers filled with pink sand from the beach. Every lighter was tested and charged. Wedding tablecloths, napkins and seat covers were counted and checked. They had arrived from India just in time, a gift from Pomegranate. The print, Desert Rose, had been designed by my son Felix and chosen because the flower blooms all over the island. (Obviously when most people host a wedding, they casually decide to design their own linens!)

We discussed the construction of the wedding arch for the beach. Weeks earlier, I had dragged home two giant bamboo branches that had washed ashore because I knew I wanted the arch to feel wild, romantic and castaway-ish.

We quickly repainted the back gate where guests would enter. The rain washed it off. We started again. We found the plywood stored beneath the house to extend the dining tables so flower arrangements could run down the middle.

I asked Claire, our Top Banana, to confirm the menu. She reminded me, rather impatiently, that the boat had not yet arrived, meaning the leeks had not yet arrived, meaning the vichyssoise soup might not arrive either.

On Thursday, the boat came in, the leeks arrived and civilisation was restored. I was then able to print out the menus. I like a printed menu. I like an invitation. I like a place card.

Friday brought real weather panic. We had several days of tropical rain and suddenly the roof of our Indian canvas tent sank, along with my heart. We needed a second tent. It felt unfair to ask guests who had flown across the world in celebration of love and resilience to also participate in a wet survival exercise. We borrowed one from our friends and wedding pros on The Other Side.

Folding bamboo chairs came out of storage. Lighting went up. Extra champagne glasses had to be hired. I entertain enthusiastically, but not at the level of thirty-five simultaneous coupes.

Then Saturday arrived.

By 6am I was encouraging the silk flowers from Amazon, not The Amazon, the other Amazon, to look less emotionally exhausted. White vacuum-sealed gauze fabric was also unpacked. I had carried all this in hand luggage on my last trip, along with David’s Cadbury chocolate.

Linda arrived to help. Every woman needs a soulmate. Some people find theirs romantically. I found mine in event logistics. Linda and I have now entered the stage of life where our greatest intimacy is silently understanding how a table should be laid without needing to discuss it.

We carried the bamboo down to the beach to erect the arch while dark clouds circled overhead and the wind attempted to relocate us to Cuba.

We clipped night blooming jasmine from around the island lanes. I think of this as community pruning. A box of fresh roses from JJ arrived by boat from Nassau, another gift for the bride and groom. Linda and I shaped them into a simple bouquet for Alina.

We set one place setting perfectly and then the helping hands copied it thirty four more times. Paper fans were laid out by each plate to stop our guests from quietly melting in the anticipated warmth.

Beach chairs were delivered to the sand. Michael rolled out the carpet his Ukrainian bride would walk down.

I like evenings to unfold in chapters. Guests first gathered under the trees in the back garden with welcome drinks and sandy feet. Then everyone moved slowly down the steps to the beach, where the gauze and flowers on the arch blew softly in the wind that had, mercifully, calmed.

Everything felt intimate, emotional and unhurried. Soft around the edges.

Everything also felt personal. The linens. The candles held in sand from the beach. Marissa, our housekeeper, made the wedding cake by hand. Linda and I decorated it with satin ribbons and silk flowers. Claire cooked for thirty-five people in our kitchen. Calvin and Angie, who have been with us for many years, helped run the evening and my friend Sophia took the photographs.

The lights came on just as dusk fell and we wandered back up the path, dipping below low branches, heels carried in hand. At the house, drinks were poured and music drifted through the garden.

Dinner was emotional. There were tears of happiness but also tears of sadness. Many guests had lived through loss, displacement, uncertainty and war. We toasted not only the couple, but peace itself.

Then the sound of drums began rising up the driveway through the darkness.

We had organised a small Junkanoo group. Nothing gets people onto their feet faster than the deep sound of island cowbells and drums moving through the night air. Suddenly the terrace was full of energy and dancing.

Afterwards, Eugene Khmara sat at the keyboard and played while his wife, Daria Kovtun, sang. We clapped and cheered.

The cake was cut. Champagne was drunk. The candles burnt out. Michael and Alina were truly married.

A few tips we learnt along the way:

Make people move throughout the evening.
A wedding feels far more magical when it unfolds in chapters. Drinks in one place, dinner somewhere else, dancing somewhere unexpected.

Do not underestimate ice.
Especially in the tropics. Warm champagne destroys morale faster than rain.

Sometimes lighting matters more than flowers.
People will forgive almost anything if candlelight is flattering enough. Put lights in trees. Line pathways. Be sure to test them the night before, unless you want guests lost in the dark quietly calling for help.

A wedding should reflect where you are.
Use what exists naturally around you. We used washed up bamboo, jasmine from the roadside and pink sand from the beach. It made everything feel rooted to the island instead of imported from a Pinterest board.

You need one excellent person beside you.
A Linda. A logistical soulmate. Someone who can look at you across a collapsing tablecloth and understand immediately what must be done.

People remember feeling, not perfection.
Nobody cared if the gauze was slightly crooked or if the wind nearly carried away the arch. They remembered the drums, the speeches, the singing, the warmth and the intimacy.

Don’t be fooled. Small weddings are not necessarily easier.
In many ways they are harder, because every detail is noticed. But they are also infinitely more personal. Every guest becomes part of the fabric of the evening rather than simply attending it.

Do not wait for life to become less complicated before gathering people together.
The world feels heavy at the moment. Which is precisely why beauty, music, candlelight, friendship and dancing barefoot under the stars matter so much.