How Gretna Green Became the Quickie Wedding Capital of 18th-Century Englanders

Ed Marshall/BIPs/Getty Images
Ed Marshall/BIPs/Getty Images

In the U.S., Las Vegas is known as the ultimate quickie wedding destination. But across the pond, the verdant village of Gretna Green in Scotland has been a hotbed of runaway “I do’s” for more than 260 years—longer than Sin City has even been around. And it was all thanks to one stuffy British lawyer who, in an attempt to reform English marriage laws, inadvertently made elopements to the tiny Scottish hamlet de rigueur for couples looking to tie the knot as soon as possible.

Before the 1750s, couples in England who wanted to get married only had to make a declaration to make the union legal and binding. However, the Church of England’s rules on marriage were a little more complicated. In order to hold an official church wedding, a couple had to make their plans publicly known several weeks before the ceremony through the reading of banns—public announcements, made on three different Sundays before the wedding, that would give the public the chance to object to the union for any legal or religious reasons, such as if one half of the couple had a previous marriage that was never annulled. (In a time when a divorce was hard to obtain, it wasn’t uncommon for people to simply try to skip town, then get married to someone else later on.) And if either person was under 21, they had to have parental permission to marry.

But since weddings that didn’t comply with these church rules were still considered legal by the British government, these so-called clandestine or irregular marriages became quite common. There were a number of other reasons why couples might have opted to forgo an official wedding, whether it was to avoid a pricey marriage license or parish fees, evade the public announcement requirement, marry despite parental opposition, conceal a pregnancy, or comply with religious beliefs outside the Church of England (Quakers, for example, often preferred to marry privately).

Skirting the marriage laws

An 18th Century Fleet Wedding—a marriage performed without banns or license at the Fleet Prison, London by unprincipled clerics
An 18th-century Fleet wedding
Hulton Archive/Getty Images

Some clergy members were willing to perform clandestine marriages for a fee, but those who did so risked being fined and suspended by the church for up to three years. Couples looking to get around the rules could seek out imprisoned clergy, who ostensibly had nothing to lose. As a result, London’s Fleet Prison, which fell outside the jurisdiction of the local bishop, became an especially popular place to get married ... until the glut of Fleet weddings came to the attention of one of the highest-ranking members of the British government.

To combat this scourge of irregular marriages, Lord Chancellor Philip Yorke, 1st Earl of Hardwicke, introduced "An Act for the Better Preventing of Clandestine Marriage,” also known as the Marriage Act of 1753. The law established two main requirements for a marriage to be considered legal: The ceremony had to be performed in a church (usually the bride’s local parish) according to Anglican rites [PDF] and both members of the couple had to be at least 21 years old or have their parents’ permission (though there were ways around that).

Still, some young lovebirds were determined to get around the rules. Numerous English couples avoided Lord Hardwicke’s Act by traveling to Scotland—very often in secret. There, girls as young as 12 years old and boys as young as 14 could get married without parental consent. They simply needed to express their desire to be married in order to be legally bound together. So Gretna Green, the most easily reachable village across the Scottish border from England, became a hotspot for elopements.

Tying the Knot with Anvils

An eloping couple are married in the blacksmith's shop in the Scottish village of Gretna Green, the nearest place over the border where English people can take advantage of Scotland's more relaxed marriage laws
Hulton Archive/Getty Images

Though Scottish marriage laws allowed for pretty much anyone to legally marry a couple, bride- and grooms-to-be arriving from England often felt as if they needed some kind of formality to make their wedding seem more official. In seeking out responsible, upstanding local citizens in a town where the likely knew no one, couples often turned to toll keepers, innkeepers, and blacksmiths to perform the ceremony.

As the local lore goes, when earnest couples crossed the Scottish border and arrived at Gretna Green, they spotted the village’s blacksmiths at their forges and would ask if they'd be willing to join them in matrimony. So it became a local tradition for couples to seek out these anvil priests in the village’s two blacksmith shops and inns, and thus the anvil came to symbolize the commitment newlyweds were making to each other.

“As a blacksmith would join metals together over the anvil, two hearts were also joined,” Susan Clark, director of Gretna Green Ltd., a local wedding planning business, tells Mental Floss. It became a popular side gig for local blacksmiths. One anvil priest, Richard Rennison, reportedly performed as many as 5147 marriages.

It didn’t take long for the village to gain a reputation as a perfectly quaint destination for elopements. By the 19th century, numerous references to the village’s popularity as a spot for runaway weddings began to appear in literature. In Jane Austen’s Pride & Prejudice, for example, Lydia Bennet leaves a note for her friend that she is on her way to Gretna Green to elope with George Wickham. Austen wrote about Scottish elopement in Sense and Sensibility and Mansfield Park as well.

Gretna Green has also garnered mentions in everything from Agatha Christie’s 1971 novel Nemesis to the early 2000s Japanese manga series Embalming: The Another Tale of Frankenstein. On television, running off to Gretna Green has been a plot point on numerous series, including the long-running British soap opera Coronation Street and, more recently, Downton Abbey.

Not-so-Quickie Weddings

A wedding party during a wedding at Gretna Green Smithy
Three Lions/Getty Images

In 1856, to reduce the flow of English couples looking to marry on the sly, Scotland amended its marriage laws, requiring that one member of the soon-to-be-married party live in Scotland for at least 21 days before saying “I do.” Which meant that couples could no longer just hop over the border for the day and head back to England as husband and wife. (That law has since been repealed.)

Even still, couples managed to make their planned elopements work. Eileen and Dennis Howell of Worcestershire, England, who were married by Richard Rennison at Gretna Green in 1939, came up with a clever workaround to comply with the residency regulation without alerting their parents, who had told them they were too young to marry. As they told the BBC in 2004, Eileen rented a house in Gretna Green for the 21-day stay legally required to secure Scottish residency, while telling her parents she was in Ludlow, Shropshire, an English town 30 miles from Worcestershire. To keep up the ruse, Dennis often rode his bike to Shropshire to send pre-written postcards to Eileen’s family. (In 2004, the couple returned to Gretna Green to celebrate their 65th anniversary.)

As it turned out, the Howells were one of the last couples to be married by Rennison. Anvil priests were not ordained ministers or priests, and Rennison’s exorbitant amount of knot-tying in the 1920s and 1930s eventually caught the eye of government officials and inspired them to write a new law. The Marriage (Scotland) Act of 1939 decreed that only ministers or registrars could marry couples, putting the nail in the coffin for anvil priests.

A Modern Wedding Destination

Laura Lines stands for pictures after getting married in February 29, 2008 in Gretna Green, Scotland.
Jeff J Mitchell/Getty Images

While irregular marriages are a thing of the past, even today, people are still drawn to the mysticism of marrying at Gretna Green. Saying “I do” over the village anvil or in the area around Dumfries continues to be a popular matrimonial choice for modern-day couples. Whereas young couples once rushed into the nearest blacksmith shop to tie the knot, now companies like Gretna Green Ltd. offer would-be spouses luxury hotels, reception halls, and restaurants for a destination wedding in the village (where family and friends happily celebrate the occasion).

According to one Scottish tourism website, about 5000 couples get married at Gretna Green each year. The tidal wave of weddings occurs not just during typical romantic holidays, like Valentine’s Day, but on other memorable dates on the calendar as well. On November 11, 2011 (11/11/11), for instance, 51 weddings and two civil services took place in Gretna and the surrounding area.

People "want to become part of the magic that is Gretna Green—the history, the intrigue, the romance and rebellion,” Clark says.

10 Historically Disappointing Time Capsules

eag1e/iStock via Getty Images
eag1e/iStock via Getty Images

Unearthing a time capsule should be an exciting affair, a chance to see mysterious items hand-picked long ago as apposite examples of a bygone era. Unfortunately, these buried tubes of old garbage rarely live up to the hype.

"Ninety-nine percent of time capsules will remain boring as hell to the people that open them," says Matt Novak, who runs Gizmodo's Paleofuture site. Novak is a self-professed time capsule nerd who has seen enough capsule disappointments to keep his hopes in check. "Time capsules are both optimistic and selfish," he tells Mental Floss. "Optimistic in the sense that they represent a belief that not only will anyone find them sometime in the future, but also that anyone will care about what's inside."

Time capsules as we know them are a relatively new invention that became famous in 1939 with the burial of the Westinghouse Time Capsule at the World's Fair. This highly publicized capsule, which is not scheduled to be opened until the year 6939, contains both quotidian items and extensive writings on human history printed on microfilm (along with instructions on how to build a microfilm viewer). It was an ambitious project, with engineers specially designing the capsule to resist the ravages of time. Most time capsules, however, aren't equipped to be buried underground.

"Burying something is literally the worst way to preserve it for future generations," Novak says, "but we continue to do it." Contents are routinely destroyed by groundwater, so most time capsules reveal little more than trash chowder.

Still, Novak holds out hope for "rare one percenters—those time capsules that not only have something interesting inside, but also survived their journey into the future without turning into mush." The following 10 time capsules, however, fall firmly in the remaining 99 percent.

1. Derry, New Hampshire comes up empty

Just this week, residents of Derry, New Hampshire gathered at the local library to witness what they hoped might be an important moment in the town's history: the opening of a 1969 time capsule, which they believed might include some memorabilia from famed astronaut Alan Shepard, who was a Derry native. Instead, they found ... nothing. Absolutely nothing.

"We were a little horrified to find there was nothing in it," library director Cara Potter told the media. While there's no written record of exactly what was inside the safe, we do know that the time capsule had been moved a couple of times over the past several decades. And that the combination was written right on the back. "I really can’t understand why anyone would want to take the capsule and do anything with it,” Reed Clark, a 90-year-old local, told the New Hampshire Union Leader. But local historian Paul Lindemann says that, "There very well may have been valuable items in there" (including something of Shepard's).

2. The past comes alive in Tucson

In 1961, Tucson, Arizona's Campbell Plaza shopping center—the first air-conditioned strip mall in the country—celebrated its grand opening. To make the event truly memorable, developers buried a time capsule beneath the mall, forbidding anyone from opening it for the achingly long time period of 25 years.

When 1986 finally rolled around, another celebration was held for the capsule's unearthing. Three television crews captured the moment when workers, accompanied by a former Tucson mayor, excavated the capsule and cracked it open. Archaeologist William L. Rathje was on hand, and he later reported its contents as "a faded local newspaper (in worse condition than many I’ve witnessed being excavated from the bowels of landfills) and some business cards."

3. Bay City makes peace with its waterlogged history

In 1965, workers at Dafoe Shipbuilding Co. in Bay City, Michigan buried the “John F. Kennedy Peace Capsule.” It was to remain buried for 100 years—until city council members got antsy in 2015 and ordered for it to be unearthed five decades sooner than originally intended.

When crews unsealed the giant capsule, they found it was totally drenched: The shipbuilders responsible for sealing the capsule couldn't prevent it from taking on water. Many of the items were paper ephemera that didn't survive their 50-year submersion.

Non-paper items that could be identified included, according to MLive.com, “an old pair of lace-up women's boots, large ice tongs for carrying blocks of ice, a slide rule with a pencil sharpener, a pestle and wooden bowl, a centennial ribbon, a coffee grinder, a filament light bulb, an old non-electric iron and lots of Bay City Centennial plates, a 1965 Alden's Summer Catalogue, papers from Kawkawlin Community Church, and booklets from the labor council.”

4. Westport Elementary's too-successful capsule

In 1947, the superintendent of Westport Elementary School in Missouri buried a time capsule that wasn't to be opened for another 50 years. He left a note detailing this fact, but he forgot to include any information about the capsule's location. When it came time to retrieve it, no one knew where to start digging. ''We're calling it a history mystery,'' said a teacher who was tasked with finding it. She had little to go on, as the school's original blueprints—like the capsule itself—were lost.

5. The smell of history on Long Island

For its 350th anniversary in 2015, the residents of Smithtown in Long Island, New York opened a time capsule that had been buried in front of town hall in 1965. An unveiling celebration was held, and a crowd of more than 175 gathered to watch town officials dressed in colonial costumes dramatically reveal its contents.

These included, according to Newsday, "a proclamation of beard-growing group Brothers of the Brush, papers, and paraphernalia from the town's 300th anniversary events, a phone book, an edition of The Smithtown News, pennies from the 1950s and '60s, a man's black hat, and a white bonnet.”

Town residents and officials alike came away unimpressed. "I would have thought those folks would have used a little more imagination and put some artifacts from that time in the time capsule," Smithtown's then-supervisor Patrick Vecchio said.

Kiernan Lannon, the executive director of the town's Historical Society, told Newsday, "The most interesting thing that came out of the time capsule was the smell. It was horrible. I have smelled history before; history does not smell like that. It was the most powerfully musty smell that I've ever smelled in my life."

6. A time capsule worse than going to class

In 2014, New York Mills Union Free School District students filed into an assembly hall to watch the opening of a 57-year-old time capsule. The capsule, buried under the school’s cornerstone, was revealed to contain "a 1957 penny, class lists, teacher handbook, budget pamphlet, and letterhead." In a video of the unearthing, you could hear stray boos from disappointed students who expected much more than letterhead.

7. Norway's anachronistic treasure trove

The residents of Otta, Norway had been eagerly awaiting the day when they'd get to open a package that had been sealed in 1912 and given to the town's first mayor in 1920, along with a note: "May be opened in 2012." Townspeople hoped it contained oil futures, while historians optimistically predicted relics from a 400-year-old battle.

The parcel was opened at the end of a lavish ceremony that featured musical performances and speeches. The crowd, which included Princess Astrid of Norway, had to wait 90 suspenseful minutes (in addition to the 100 years since 1912) before they got down to business.

The Gudbrandsdal museum's Kjell Voldheim had the honor of opening the package. Inside he found ... another package. Inside that package were miscellaneous papers, and Voldheim narrated for the crowd as he pored through the items. “Oye yoy yoy," he said ("almost in exasperation," according to Smithsonian), as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Included among the lackluster documents were newspapers dated from 1914 and 1919, a few years after the package had presumably been sealed. While deemed authentic, the find was nonetheless confusing.

8. New Zealand's rare find

In 1995, a 100-year-old capsule thought to contain historical documents was opened by hopeful scholars in New Zealand. According to The New York Times, "all they found was muddy water and a button.”

9. Michigan's capitol mess

The Michigan State Capitol celebrated its 100th birthday in 1979, and officials marked the occasion by opening a capsule that had been buried beneath the building's cornerstone. While the itemized list of the capsule's contents was intriguing—"1873 newspapers, a state history, a history of Free Masonry, a copy of the Declaration of Independence, a silver plate inscribed with Lansing officials’ names, and other papers on specialized topics"—it wasn't included in the actual box. The actual items that were buried wound up being destroyed.

“They’re in very bad shape,” Robert Warner, the late director of the University of Michigan's Bentley Historical Library, said. Water damage had ruined the fragile paper documents, and Capitol anniversary revelers had to gamely celebrate a box full of sludge.

10. Keith Urban's time capsule confusion

Australia's Pioneer Village Country Music Hall had been left in disrepair, which is what made the discovery of a plaque on its grounds in 2014 so exciting. Perhaps there was promise buried beneath the abandoned venue. Hidden behind overgrown vegetation, it read:

Pioneer Village Country Music Club
10 yr Time Capsule
Placed by Mayor Yvonne Chapman
This Day 4th July 1994
To be Re-opened 4th July 2004

As recounted by Paleofuture, the capsule's opening was a decade overdue, though fans who used to frequent the music hall said they already knew what was inside: a photo of a young Keith Urban. The musician got his start at Pioneer Village, and the photo was buried to celebrate the local star.

Oddly, a different capsule from 1994 was discovered on the music hall's abandoned grounds in 2013. Keith Urban fans eagerly opened it, thinking they had found the photo, but were left disappointed when it proved to be empty. So, by process of elimination, a photo of Keith Urban had to be in the more recently discovered capsule. Unless there's a third capsule, in which case they should probably just give up and buy a Keith Urban photo on eBay.

This story has been updated for 2019.

Hard Sell: A History of the Pet Rock

Amazon
Amazon

You may have heard the story of the Pet Rock, the Mexican beach stone that could be purchased in bulk for less than a penny, retailed for $3.95, and made inventor Gary Dahl a millionaire during a kind of novelty gift hysteria in late 1975. But Dahl didn’t really get rich off of the rock.

He got rich off of a cardboard box.

Dahl was working as a freelance advertising copywriter in California that year when, while having drinks at a bar with friends, the conversation turned to the destructive nature of pets. Dogs and cats ruined furniture. Worse, they required constant attention, from being walked to being fed to cleaning up after them. Dahl said that he didn’t have to worry about any of that because he had a “pet rock.”

It was, of course, a joke. And it got a laugh. But Dahl decided there could be more to it than that. He went home and began writing an owner’s manual for this hypothetical pet rock, which detailed how best to handle it, the tricks it could perform (“play dead” being the most popular), and how it could remain a faithful companion due to its “long life span.” The gag was not so much the rock itself but the way it was presented. In addition to the manual, Dahl conceived of a cardboard box with air holes that resembled the kind used by pet shops. It also bore a passing resemblance to a McDonald's Happy Meal container.

 

Dahl's motivation in making a serious effort to monetize his pet rock idea was due in large part to his precarious financial situation at the time—he was struggling to keep up with his bills. He recruited George Coakley and John Heagerty, two colleagues, to come on as investors. They both signed on, with Coakley investing $10,000—a not-inconsiderable sum in 1975, especially when the intention was to sell virtually worthless rocks.

The Pet Rock packaging is pictured
Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain

Dahl, however, knew what he was marketing. Like chattering teeth, the Hula Hoop, and other fads, the Pet Rock was the beneficiary of good timing. Vietnam had ended but Watergate was still fresh; the country’s mood was slightly downcast, and Dahl believed people would see the inane nature of the Pet Rock and recognize the humor of it. He boxed the rocks with the manual and packed them in excelsior, which may be best known as comic book legend Stan Lee’s catchphrase but also means a softwood shaving pile meant for protecting fragile items. The rocks were purchased from a local sand and gravel company, which sourced them from Mexico’s Rosarita Beach. Dahl debuted the rock at a gift show in San Francisco in August of 1975, then waited for a reaction.

He got one. People understood the appeal right away and he began taking orders. Neiman Marcus wanted 1000 rocks. Bloomingdale’s later signed on. Newsweek did a story with a picture, which spread the word. Dahl had retail and media credibility for what was superficially a nonsense product. His bar joke was turning into a national phenomenon.

When the holiday season arrived, Dahl estimated he was selling up to 100,000 Pet Rocks a day. Ultimately, he would sell between 1.3 and 1.5 million of them within a period of just a few months. Coakley made $200,000 back on his initial $10,000 investment. Dahl gifted both Coakley and Heagerty with Mercedes. Making 95 cents in profit on each Pet Rock sold, Dahl earned over $1 million. He launched his own firm, Rock Bottom Productions, which was itself another joke. “You’ve reached Rock Bottom” is how the receptionist answered their phone.

 

The fad did not last—by definition, they’re not designed to—but Dahl was satisfied. His two investors were not; they "claimed they had received too small a share of the profits" and later sued Dahl for more revenue. After a judgment in the investors' favor, Dahl wrote them a six-figure check.

The Pet Rock is pictured
Amazon

There were attempts to prolong the life of the rock by offering a Bicentennial version in 1976—it had the American flag painted on it—and mail-order college degrees for them. Dahl sold Pet Rock T-shirts and Pet Rock shampoo. There were also copycat gifts, since Dahl could not really patent a rock. (He might have been able to obtain a utility patent because of the rock’s particular purpose as a companion, but he did not.) The humor was transient, however, and people had moved on.

Dahl had other ideas. There was the Official Sand Breeding Kit, which claimed to provide guidance on growing sand, and Canned Earthquake, which consisted of a coffee can that had a wind-up mechanism that caused it to jump around on a table. Neither was particularly successful. Dahl’s real passion, though, was buying and renovating a bar in Los Gatos, which he named Carrie Nation’s Saloon.

This was not without its problems, as people who believed they had the next Pet Rock would often stop by the bar to try and secure an audience with Dahl for his insight. Many times, their idea consisted of packaging bull or elephant excrement. There were also proposals to market a pet stick. Dahl had no patience for these inventors, believing the Pet Rock could not be duplicated. Later, he went back to advertising after taking what he described as an “eight-year vacation” following the success of his project.

The Pet Rock can still be found online, though it’s no longer Dahl’s business. He died in 2015. Of the unsold rocks he had left over at the end of the fad, he was indifferent. If they didn’t sell, he said, he would just use them to repave his driveway.

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