Peter Ross: Couples leap at the chance to say 'I do' at Gretna Green

My male friends have tended to be Godless, jobless, commitment-phobes, lacking the necessary faith, funds and finer feelings to ask a lass to marry them.

How odd, then, to find myself at 13 marriage ceremonies in one day, but that's the way it is when you spend time in Gretna Green. The small border town has been synonymous with getting hitched for more than 250 years, since a change in English law encouraged teenage couples to elope to Scotland, where they could marry without the permission of their parents.

These days, young people are more likely to flee north into the generous bosom of Alex Salmond in the hope of escaping student debt, but Gretna Green remains a phenomenally popular place to get married. Around one in every six weddings in Scotland happens here. I visit on Friday – February 29, traditionally the date in the leap year on which a woman can propose – and there are no less than 38 weddings taking place at various venues in the town.

The World Famous Old Blacksmith's Shop proclaims itself as such on a large wooden sign. "Famous for runaway weddings since 1754" it says proudly. This small white cottage is where it all began. Couples have been coming here for centuries and marrying over the anvil. In the early days, you would pay anything from a few guineas to a drop of whisky, and an 'anvil priest' would conduct an impromptu service; one of the most famous priests, Joseph Paisley, was a former smuggler who weighed 25 stone, drank two pints of brandy each day, and could straighten a horseshoe with his bare hands. Hardly the Vicar of Dibley.

These days, marrying at the Old Blacksmith's Shop will cost you around 200, plus ceremony fees, and the service will be conducted by either a minister or a civil celebrant from the council.

Inside the blacksmith's workshop, the famous anvil rests on a tree stump. It's a rustic room with white walls and stone flagstones, and the rain is throwing itself against the windows with all the violence of an enraged viscount desperate to stop his daughter marrying the idiot stable boy. The first wedding today is at 10am, the last at 5.30pm. Each is given a half-hour slot, and there is a fair amount of to-ing and fro-ing as couples enter and exit.

I speak with Anthony and Susan Matthews from Shropshire, the fifth bride and groom to marry today. They met through a shared enthusiasm for steam engines, so are forever going away for "dirty weekends" and coming home covered in coal dust. I ask why they chose February 29 as their wedding day.

"Truthfully," says Anthony, "I'm not very good at remembering anniversaries and birthdays." Susan, amused, nods. "We came here for a break and liked it," Anthony continues. "And Sue said that if we got married on the 29th, then not only would I not have to worry about anniversaries so much, I wouldn't have to buy so many presents."

Susan laughs. "Yeah," she says, "but you'll have to make it count when you do." Today's 13 weddings and two blessings are straightforward affairs, but with around 1,000 weddings each year, it's inevitable that the Old Blacksmith's Shop has its share of unorthodox ceremonies. One couple brought their pet dogs as witnesses, though humans had to step in and sign the legal documents. On another occasion, a supergrass from Northern Ireland married here, and was bundled out a side entrance by minders while the piper went out the main exit as a decoy.

A book of photographs of former weddings bears witness to the range of different themed weddings that have taken place here everything from Tyneside line-dancers to goths from Glasgow.

Jim Henderson, a friendly 66-year-old with tartan trousers and eyebrows like Nike swooshes, is the senior guide. He points to a photo of a goth wedding in which the well-built bride is wearing fishnet stockings and a red PVC dress. "I had a heart attack a week after that," he says.

In another photograph, Jimmy Savile is standing alone and jubilant at the anvil in a string vest and trackie bottoms. He has taken the trouble to come back and sign the picture, writing "Still single – thank God!!!" down one side.

Alan Marshall, the piper, is playing at most of today's weddings but has a moment to chat. He is 56 and has played here, on and off, since he was 12 years old. He took over properly in 1999 after his elder brother Billy, who had been the piper, died. In full Highland dress, Marshall is catnip for photographers. "I'm on everybody's sideboard and mantelpiece, aye," he says. "In peak season, I'll get my picture taken 1,000 times a day. There's no charge, but often people think there will be because, when they go abroad, they pay 10 euros to get pictured with a monkey. Surely, though, I'm better looking than a monkey?"

Someone clearly thought so. Marshall married a woman at whose wedding he had been hired to play. After it was cancelled, they enjoyed a whirlwind romance.

"I had been joking that one day I'd get one of these brides for myself," he laughs, "and, crikey, it happened."

I go outside to the courtyard. Newlyweds Laura and Tim Lines ("as in double yellow") are standing in the rain to have their picture taken. The bride is wearing a lovely white dress and bright pink wellies, and does not remove these when she gets into a silver Bentley to drink Champagne.

It's a genuinely romantic moment, and those are the speciality of the house. Marriage is in decline in Scotland and the divorce rate is rising steeply, but this small corner of Scotland is a matrimonial biosphere shielded from such statistics, if not from the snell wind off the Solway Firth.