[ THE 2AM PROBLEM ]
You know you don't want two hundred people and a seating chart. You know you'd rather be standing somewhere that means something with the person you're marrying and not much else.
What you don't know is whether it's legal, who's allowed to marry you, whether you need a permit for that headland, what your mother is going to say, and roughly a hundred other things that arrive at two in the morning.
None of it is complicated. It's just that nobody writes it down.
So here it is, written down.
[ before we start ]
That's the line most people use, and it's as good as any. But the number isn't really the point.
The difference isn't headcount — it's whether the day is built around the two of you or around the guest list. I've photographed thirty-person days that were unmistakably elopements, and eight-person ones that felt like a wedding with most of it removed.
Legally there's no difference at all. Same paperwork, same celebrant, same two witnesses, same certificate. Nobody at Births, Deaths and Marriages counts the chairs.
So use whichever word you like. Everything on this page applies either way.
15 or fewer
More than that
season
where
guests
papers
permits
team
the day
staying
the season
Everything else follows from this. The light, the crowds, whether the track is walkable, whether you'll be standing in a storm at four o'clock.
Winter is the secret in South East Queensland. Dry, clear, cool enough to walk in, and the light is better. Summer means afternoon storms and humidity that will find you wherever you're hiding. Spring and autumn are the safe middle.
Down south it inverts — summer is the season in Tasmania and the alps, and winter shuts a lot of it down.
01
One thing people get wrong
Choosing a date because it's meaningful, then discovering it's the middle of the wet season.
season
where
guests
papers
permits
team
the day
staying
where
Most people start with a location they've seen a photograph of. Start one step earlier — with what you want the day to feel like — and the location tends to pick itself.
02
One thing people get wrong
Picking the most photogenic spot in the state rather than one that already means something to the two of you. The second one always photographs better.
No path in, no permit desk, nobody else. A summit, a gorge, a beach at the end of a track.
A property, an estate, a vineyard. Someone else owns the problem of chairs and toilets.
A street, a laneway, the kitchen. The places you already live in.
Somewhere neither of you has been, which turns the day into a trip.
a mountain he proposed on 8 years ago
season
where
guests
papers
permits
team
the day
staying
guests
This is the step people lose sleep over, and it's almost never about logistics.
Legally you need two witnesses over eighteen. That's it. They can be friends, family, your celebrant's partner, or two strangers who happen to be on the same track. I've been one more than once.
Everything above two is a choice, and the useful question isn't who would be offended. It's who would I want standing there. Those are different lists and the second one is usually much shorter.
Then tell people early, and tell them warmly. Most of the hurt comes from finding out afterwards, not from not being invited.
03
One thing people get wrong
Inviting one more person to avoid a conversation. It's never one more person.
season
where
guests
papers
permits
team
the day
staying
PAPERS
There's a form. Five pages, called a Notice of Intended Marriage, and it has to be in your celebrant's hands one calendar month before the day you want to marry. Not lodged with a registry. Not posted to a government office. Handed to the person who's going to marry you.
One month is the floor. Eighteen months is the ceiling. Inside that window you can move your date without starting again.
04
If you're marrying overseas
Different country, different rules. Plenty of couples sign the Australian paperwork quietly at home first and let the day be the day.
One form. One month. A handful of signatures. After that the only thing left to organise is the part you actually wanted.
I've done this myself so reach out if you have any questions.
A passport each, or a birth certificate. A passport does the whole job on its own and it can be expired. If either of you has been married before, they'll need the divorce order or the death certificate. Originals or certified copies — a photo on your phone won't do it.
You don't both have to sign at once. One signature lodges it. The other can sign in front of the celebrant any time before you marry, including the morning of.
Both over eighteen, both standing there when you say the words. If it's just the two of you on a headland somewhere, that's usually me and whoever else is out in the wind with us.
You'll sign three certificates. The one you carry home is real — it's proof the ceremony happened — but it isn't the one Passports or the licensing office will accept. That one comes later, from the registry in the state you married in, and you order it yourself. If you're changing your name, that's the certificate you need.
Your celebrant lodges everything within fourteen days. Then it's finished and you never think about it again.
season
where
guests
papers
permits
team
the day
staying
permits
This is the step that decides whether the picture in your head is actually available on the day you want it.
Every place you might stand belongs to someone. A council, a national park, a farmer, a resort. Which one it is decides how much sits between you and the spot.
Council land — beaches, headlands, reserves, lookouts — needs a permit. It's straightforward and it isn't expensive, but the good spots go a long way out, so apply earlier than feels necessary. National parks are a separate department and a slower form, and a few won't allow ceremonies at all.
Private land needs nothing from council. It needs the owner's yes, which is not the same thing as a booking confirmation. Plenty of holiday houses quietly ban events. Ask in writing.
What you're buying is a window, not a place. Two or three hours with setup and pack-down inside it, and you won't have the beach to yourselves. Nobody does. There'll be walkers and a dog and someone fishing down the sand, and in ten years that's the part you'll be telling people about.
05
One thing people get wrong
Assuming somewhere that empty doesn't need asking. The emptier it looks, the more likely it belongs to a national park.
season
where
guests
papers
permits
team
the day
staying
team
You need far fewer people than a wedding needs, and every one of them matters more.
Start with the celebrant. Everything in the last section runs through them, and the month doesn't begin counting until they have your form in their hands. Book them before you book anything else.
After that the list is short. At a wedding your photographer is one of a hundred and twenty people. Out here they're one of three, standing close enough to hear what you say to each other, from morning until the light goes. How someone makes you feel matters at least as much as the work does.
If you're going somewhere remote, ask what they've done in that kind of place. Whether they can carry their own gear up the hill. Whether they've stood in that weather before. Enthusiasm isn't the same as having done it.
Flowers, hair and makeup are optional, and both come with a clock attached. A sunrise ceremony means someone starting on your hair at three thirty in the morning, and a bouquet that has to survive a car, a walk and the wind. Worth wanting. Just not free of consequence.
06
One thing people get wrong
Booking on portfolio alone. You can love someone's photographs and still not want to spend eleven hours with them on a mountain.
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where
guests
papers
permits
team
the day
staying
the day
The ceremony is the shortest thing that happens, and almost nobody expects that.
The day gets built around light rather than around a schedule. Usually that means the first hour after sunrise or the last two before dark, and everything else arranges itself around whichever one you choose. It's the only part of the planning where the answer isn't yours to make.
Which leaves a lot of hours that aren't spoken for. A drive with the windows down. The walk in. Sitting on a rock not saying much. Lunch somewhere with your shoes off. A wedding doesn't have room for any of that, and it only exists here because there's nobody to entertain.
Eat something. Carry water. Wear shoes you can actually walk in and put the good ones in a bag. If there's a walk in, we'll go slower than you think we need to, because arriving out of breath is a way to miss the first ten minutes of your own wedding.
Decide the wet-weather plan now, while it's still abstract. Somewhere covered, or a second spot lower down, or simply an agreement between the two of you that rain is allowed. Six in the morning with your hair already done is the worst possible time to be making that call.
08
One thing people get wrong
Filling the day back up. You didn't do this to have somewhere to be at two o'clock.
[ leave no trace ]
The place is the reason you're going. It's also the thing most at risk from people doing exactly what we're about to do.
So we stay on the track. Nothing gets moved or broken for a better frame. Petals, confetti and smoke stay at home. Whatever we carry in comes out again with us, including the flowers once we're done with them.
None of it will cost you anything on the day, and you won't notice me doing it. It's just why the place is still worth standing in, and why the two people who come after you get the same view you did.
AND THEN THERE'S ME
You've just read eight things to work out. Here's the part where you stop holding them.
After our first call I draft a timeline for your day and send it across with your quote. It's rough on purpose — a first go at where the light will be, how long the walk in takes, when you'd want to eat. Something to argue with. That's usually where the day starts taking its actual shape, in the back and forth over a draft neither of us is precious about.
By the week of the wedding it's the whole thing on one page, and nobody is guessing at anything.
Carissa
Somewhere in that hour it stops being an idea. They go quiet, then they get excited, then they get a bit nervous — all three of those about ten seconds apart.
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