Will’s World: A killer location for a farming proposal

Hopeless old romantic that I am, I very much enjoy reading about fellow farmers’ elaborate wedding proposal efforts.

Love must be in the air, because there’s been a plethora of them on FW’s social media feeds recently.

From a giant “Marry Me?” dug into a hillside, to an engagement ring tied around a calf’s neck, it’s been lovely to see, and I wish the couples in question a lifetime of health and happiness together.

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As a grizzled veteran of 16 years, seven months, and six days of marriage myself, I have no advice to give other than to surround yourself with the people you care about most on the big day. Everything else will take care of itself.

I jest, but as you’ll all have doubtless realised by now, the present Mrs Evans has an awful lot to put up with, and I’ve been punching well above my weight since the evening we met at a Shropshire YFC dance way back in 2004.

I’d like to say that I swept her off her feet with my dashing good looks and devastating charm, but in reality, she only agreed to go out on a date because she felt a bit sorry for me.

Anyway, I managed to make her laugh a few times, and now she’s a poor tenant farmer’s wife and mother of numerous adolescent daughters all aggressively vying with her on a daily basis to be the alpha female of the Evans household.

There’s a cautionary tale there somewhere.

Popping the question

But going back to romantic proposals, being young and lovestruck as I was in those heady early days, I devised a meticulous plan to pop the question to the unsuspecting then-future Mrs Evans.

I’d find a suitably beautiful place, pull out a ring, get down on one knee, she’d say yes, and we’d all live happily ever after.

Before our lives were completely taken up with running our delightful offspring round the country to sporting events, we used to enjoy hill walking together and had taken several trips to the various summits of North Wales.

It was therefore natural for me to suggest a few days away in the Scottish Highlands, on the pretence of hiking a section of the Highland Way together, and I booked a stay at the legendary Clachaig Inn in Glencoe.

The weekend came, and we headed northwards, with my nerves on edge, the ring burning a hole in my pocket, and a bottle of cheap champagne hidden in the bottom of my bag.

After checking into our room, I read through a book of suggested local hikes to get some ideas, and there it was – the perfect place for a proposal.

Little Miss Sunshine

In those days I’d refer to the then future Mrs Evans as “Little Miss Sunshine” because of her happy and bright disposition, and just a short way from the inn was a walk up “Tom a’ Ghrianain” – or in English “The Hill of the Sun”. It was obviously meant to be.

At the summit, as planned, I got down on one knee, told her all the things I loved about her, and asked her to marry me.

Miraculously, she said yes, and we proceeded to drink the aforementioned bottle of cheap champagne before heading back to the Inn to tell everyone there our happy news.

Eyebrows were raised, though, because it turns out that the Hill of the Sun is the exact place where the Campbells lit the beacon to signal the start of the infamous Glencoe massacre of the McDonalds in 1692.

A bloody metaphor for our marriage? I couldn’t possibly comment.