In 1969, when I was 18, I made a sort of a pilgrimage to Glastonbury. Starting from my home in Tonbridge, I walked all the way through Sussex, Hampshire and Wiltshire, then up into Somerset. I was on my own, slept in the open and refused all lifts. About halfway through I hit Southampton Water and, having spent a rainy night with my feet in a puddle, took a day out to rest, visited the ruins of Netley Abbey and spent the morning or afternoon (I forget which) dossing on a piece of open ground, looking out to sea.
I knew the wedding photographs were going to be taken at the Abbey and I sort of hoped I'd be able to recognise the recreation ground where I'd done my chilling- and I did; it 's right next to the church hall where we had the reception.
I was expected to wear a suit to the wedding. Suits are not me. As soon as we got to Netley I took my jacket off, opened my top button and wrapped the tie round my head like a bandana.