Simply Stella

Riding in a horsedrawn cart on her wedding day is a romantic dream for many a bride.

Even when she's the millionairess fashion designer daughter of one of Britain's richest men and could well afford a whole fleet of limousines.

But perhaps for Stella McCartney, the simple rustic charm of a horse and cart seemed more fitting given the location of her wedding - the isolated and beautiful Isle of Bute in Scotland.

The 31-year-old daughter of the former Beatle Sir Paul married magazine publisher Alasdhair Willis there yesterday, surrounded by a host of big showbusiness names including Madonna, Pierce Brosnan and Kate Moss.

And in the morning two trucks carrying several Clydesdale horses and an elegant cart arrived on the island by ferry and then drove on to Mount Stuart, the spectacular Victorian Gothic house owned by former Formula 1 driver Johnny Dumfries, the Marquess of Bute.

Stella and Alasdhair were married in the 300-acre estate's chapel at 4.30pm. Guests could be seen gathered outside, a kilted bagpiper was on hand and the happy couple's initials had been laid out on the ground.

The bride wore a wedding dress that she designed with Tom Ford, her boss at fashion house Gucci. The creation was said to be based on the wedding outfit worn by Stella's late mother Linda, which consisted of a stylish fawn dress and bright yellow coat.

After the service the pair stepped into the cart and, pulled by two of the Clydesdales, were taken to the stately home where a lavish reception, believed to have cost £2 million, was held in a specially erected marquee.

Around 100 guests, including Stella's father and his pregnant wife Heather, tucked into a vegehappytarian dinner of asparagus tips, veggie bangers and mash, and chocolate souffle.

Later, they repaired to the grounds to watch a spectacular fireworks display before dancing to the music of the Rothesay and District Pipe Band.

The Isle of Bute, with its still clear waters, wild heatherscattered mountains and skies where eagles soar is the full Scottish picture postcard.

That Stella had spent many a childhood holiday scrambling-around the beaches and coves of the Mull of Kintyre - an hour's boat trip, or brief helicopter flight west of the Isle - only added to its appeal as a backdrop for her wedding.

There were more people there than the bride might have expected. For the past week the Press pack has been arriving at Rothesay, the Isle's only town and the point where the ferry from the mainland docks.

They were followed by the cream of British and American celebrity: Madonna and Guy Ritchie, Sting and Trudi Styler, Kate Moss, Chrissie Hynde, Liv Tyler, Rod Stewart and Coldplay singer Chris Martin with girlfriend Gwyneth Paltrow. The tiny Rothesay Port had never seen the like.

Nor for that matter had Wemyss Bay, the dot on the mainland map, 40 minutes' drive from Glasgow Airport, where the ferry departs and where the local Station Bar played host to Miss Moss and Co for 45 breathless minutes. They had, in true celebrity form, arrived late and missed their allotted ferry.

Crowds applauded the arrival of each ferry at Rothesay as blackedout, bullet-proof Range Rovers carried the guests straight to Mount Stuart. There was, it seems, no question of Madonna and Guy - once the supposed hard man of British cinema - popping down to Zavaroni's Cafe on the front for a fry-up or cup of builder's.

Rothesay has the highest number of pubs per capita of anywhere in Britain - 36 at the last count on an isle only 15 miles by five and, usually, with a population of 6,500.

But on Saturday night Rothesay was full - 100 per cent booked solid. Journalists slept three to a single room, on floors, in caravans . . . rumours abounded that one enterprising hack had slept upright in a sleeping bag in a cupboard.

But it seemed that only a handful of the assembled Press would get to see what they had been sent there to report on. At Mount Stuart guests were ushered in and out with a complicated system of colour coded tags and passes.

Rock Steady, the security firm more accustomed to manning stadium gigs, sporting events and festivals, had the area 'locked down'.

Guards in dark glasses, black tops and baseball caps - their walkietalkies strapped to their belts like guns, their ear pieces humming and squeaking - stood in rank along the gates of the Marquess of Bute's estate.

There is, however, nothing more certain to pique the interest of Her Majesty's Press than something secret. Every Fleet Street hack loves a challenge.

One photographer armed with a spade, camouflage net and long lens dug himself a fox-hole with a view on the edge of a thin strip of land which was, he was informed, used as an occasional airfield. It was several hours before the bleak reality dawned that he was, in fact, on the edge of a golf course.

In the absence of much genuine information, an atmosphere of paranoia and subterfuge developed. If someone ran, they were followed by a gaggle of reporters uncertain as to who or what they were chasing but determined not to miss a story.

On Friday three reporters risked life and limb, scrambling over the rocks and crags of the Isle's inaccessible coast because somebody had seen somebody who looked a bit like Stella in a dinghy. 'Well it's the sort of thing she'd do isn't it?' they reasoned before setting off. Neither Stella, nor the 'source', was identified.

And so by yesterday afternoon the Press and the stars fell into their distinct groups. At one end of the Isle the macrobiotic, the yoga-practising, the alcohol-free celebrities of the world enjoyed a ride around the Mount Stuart estate in carriages pulled by teams of Clydesdales.

At the other end the burgerchomping, beer-swilling journalists mooched around the front, drank Irn Bru because they felt they ought to being in Scotland and all that, and craned their necks for evidence of the helicopters every hack had boasted he would be in.

But if Stella resented our presence she might console herself with this thought. In one night Rothesay restaurants and bars were left with empty larders and dry cellars.

The food ran out - literally - kegs of beer were drained, bottles of wine which had long languished at the bottom of the list were consumed and by last orders cigarette machines coughed emptily.

Across on the Mull of Kintyre itself, there was not a hotel room or boarding house with a vacancy and the ringing of mobile phones was rivalled only by the ringing of tills.

So while her father has long championed the beauty of this remote stretch of land and water, Stella by 'inviting' the Press to its shores has done more for its ailing economy than Sir Paul ever managed.