Ramblings

Easter fell early in 1989, with Good Friday on the 24th March, so it was optimistic of us to book a week in south Devon, at a place called Lamacraft. I had been there before: the owner was a lovely chap, but he had the habit of pitching his voice unnaturally low in what I took to be an attempt to project gravitas. An attempt which failed, I thought, when he announced the duck pâté, and henceforth we naturally referred to the guest house as duck pâté.

We drove down on Good Friday, and stopped off in Highbridge, where Debbie’s Auntie Joan provided her usual huge cold lunch spread. After arriving at Lamacraft and unpacking we celebrated our arrival in the traditional way by walking down to the sea at Hallsands.

Saturday was warm and sunny, and we walked from Lannacombe to Start Point, having lunch in Hallsands Hotel, along with a number of dripping scuba divers.

Everything was going well and we were having a lovely time, even though duck pâté was no longer on the menu. But unfortunately our bedroom was directly above the bar, and tonight our host had some friends to stay, who were drinking, laughing and chatting loudly until 2am while our irritation grew into anger. It was a short night’s sleep. Our host was very apologetic when I complained about it in the morning, but really, had it not occurred to him that they would be disturbing our sleep?

We put this behind us and exchanged Easter eggs, had a Full Devon Breakfast and set off to walk the next section along the coast to East Prawle and Gorah Rock. Again, the weather was beautiful. At 1 o’clock we reached a grassy headland at Langerstone Point, and settled down for our picnic. Then we lay on the grass talking and basking in the sunshine. A gentle breeze ruffled the grass and spring flowers, while the sea played against the cliff and the seabirds flew below us. I looked up at her beautiful, gentle, humorous face and thought: Rik, what are you waiting for? and if not now, when?

I hadn’t bought a ring: this might have been my characteristic caution where money is concerned, but I prefer to think it was to avoid appearing presumptuous. Nor did I go down on one knee: I was already lying down, leaning on my elbow. I decided to keep it simple, and to omit Mr D’arcy’s bit about “against my better judgement”. I looked into her eyes and said

“Debbie, will you marry me?”

I was quietly confident that I would get the answer I wanted, so her answer took me back a little.

“In principle.”

What was that supposed to mean? What it meant, it turned out, was that she (and I) wanted us to be married, but was much less enthusiastic about our getting married, and all the palaver that would entail. But in her style, it was a yes, and it made me very happy.

It was fortunate that neither of us believed in omens. As if to illustrate the uncertainties of married life, within minutes a dense sea mist rolled on to the clifftop, reducing visibility to a few feet. We retreated to a café full of damp walkers, and started talking about our plans: the wedding, we concluded, would dominate until it was done, so we resolved to tie the knot as soon as decently possible, and move on with our lives.

We celebrated with champagne that night and discussed the future. And the next morning we reluctantly headed home. We had agreed that we would give our happy tidings to both sets of parents at the same time, so the news was still embargoed when we stopped off for tea at Debbie’s parents’ house: we told them nothing. But I’m sure Beryl knew. Mums always do.