Trashing The Dress

I recently received this letter from my pen pal...


Hello, Autumn is in the air here. The evenings are getting darker, the trees are changing colour and some are dropping leaves. The apples and fruit are ripe and ready to pick, the harvest has been gathered. Frost cannot be far off now, the nights are already feeling cold.

Still, the autumn ploughing, which has just started has got it's interests. I have just got back from a cold, wet field nearby, watching it being ploughed and a rather strange local event. A Trashing the Dress party.

This is a very odd sort of celebration. So far as I know it is a tradition particular to the very far north of Scotland. I have never heard of anything similar elsewhere in the UK. The tradition is strong here though and seems to be growing more so. If you look in the windows of local photographers shops you will see the usual wedding, baby and other photos, as well as trashing the dress pictures.

It seems that, once a woman is well and truly married. Once she is sure she will never again need her wedding dress. She has the choice of putting it away in her wardrobe, never to see daylight again unless she can pass it on to her daughter. Assuming she has one. Assuming the dress will fit the girl. Assuming the dress is still fashionable. Assuming the daughter wants to wear it. Or, she can trash it!

This seems to be then a public statement made by a young married woman, but never explicitly expressed, that she is now happily married and will not be seeking another husband. So, she gathers her friends and relatives together as witnesses, as well as a photographer. Then she puts on her wedding dress and goes and does something that will utterly destroy it, so that it is fit for nothing but the 'rag and bone man'.

Today the young lady arrived wearing a lovely, full length gown with a short train. She had a little posy of flowers in her hands an a veil, thrown back over her head to reveal her face and held in place by a simple band. She had a pair of pretty white shoes on, with dainty high heels. Also white stockings, a baby ble garter and a little white thong. I know, because she posed for us with her skirts lifted high. Just for the photographer you understand.

Anyway. The field was being ploughed. It was rough, since the ground had only just been turned. It was also very wet, since it was raining overnight. The tractor pulled up alongside the young lady. The plough had been unhooked. In it's place a heavy, knotted rope had been fixed to the tow hook. The bride picked up the knotted rope and hung on tight as the tractor set off slowly across the muddy field. The young woman had no choice but to follow. In moments she had lost a shoe, stuck in the mud. Moments later she broke the heel off the other shoe, so kicked it off and continued barefoot. Her dress by now was getting very muddy around the skirts whilst the tractor wheels were throwing up mud all over her bodice. Soon her stockings were shredded as she walked through the foot. Finally she staggered, falling to her knees in the plough furrows. The tractor continued it's slow progress though. So, a moment later, she was pulled onter her chest, to be dragged slowly through the sticky soil for some 20ft or so. Finally, she let go of the rope. She struggled to her feet and, amidst loud applause and the flash of camera flashguns, she stumbled to the edge of the field.

An odd ceremony. Great fun to watch though. I couldn't help feeling it was a bit kinky too. There were elements of public humiliation, exhibitionism and messy play in all this.

Or perhaps that is just seeing things from my kinky perspective. Perhaps it is in fact simply an endearing pagan ritual.

Do you have anything similar in nature on the far side of the atlantic? Is this simply a bit of British madness?