I open the doors. You just walk through them.

One — The Conversation

No venue is named before this. Who you are, who is coming, what worries you, what you have already been told by someone else. A free thirty-minute call, on your time zone.

You get: a written summary within a day — two or three venues worth seeing, the paperwork ahead, and an honest read on what the coast can give you on your dates.

Two — Reading the Coast

I do not pick a venue from a catalogue. I read the place: what the light does at seven, how many steps there are between the ceremony and the dinner, which road closes in August, which comune actually marries foreign couples without making it difficult.

You get: a shortlist of three venues with my honest view of each — including why one of them is wrong for you.

Three — The Table

The florist, the photographer, the celebrant, the kitchen, the musicians, the drivers. People I have known for years, not a directory. There is no list you are obliged to buy from, and I do not add a margin to what they quote.

You get: your team, by name, with their work and their real prices.

Four — The Paperwork

The part that frightens couples most, and the part you should think about least. Comune, consulate, translations, and an Italian marriage that is recognised when you get home. I file it. You sign what needs signing, when I tell you.

You get: a dated schedule of every document, and me standing in the queue.

Five — The Day

One wedding a day. I am on the terrace from the morning, not on the phone from someone else's wedding. If something moves, it moves without you hearing about it.

You get: one run sheet, and one number to call. Mine.

Six — Afterwards

The wedding is one day of a week. Welcome dinner, the boat day, the long lunch, the brunch nobody wants to leave, rooms for the people who came a long way, and every transfer back to Naples.

You get: the whole week planned, not just the ceremony.