For years I had imagined the day I would propose. Influenced by stories I had heard of friends who had used candles on the quayside or boats on a creek or fireworks in the forest or some kind of intricately orchestrated treasure hunt, I imagined elaborate ways I could make proposing to somebody an occasion to remember. Engagement is, after all, a significant moment in the journey of two souls deciding to commit to one another for the rest of their lives.
With all of my imaginations and ideas, the day my inner romantic had often daydreamed about finally came, abruptly, on the 4th March, 2016.
Jess and I had been outside of Iceland for a month or so because of Jess’s visa problems and we had talked regularly about marriage and spending our lives together. Although it seemed like the natural step to take, I had experienced a lot of anxiety, not wanting to lose a great relationship, but struggling with the idea of committing to somebody for the rest of my life. In 21st Century Europe, marriage is almost becoming counter-cultural to a commitment phobic generation. By nature, we are fickle creatures, wanting the joys of relationship highs but wanting a way out during the lows. That’s precisely why I whole-heartedly believe in marriage, a way in which relationship can be confirmed by a covenant, where the mutual commitment gives us a goal and wider sense of purpose than temporal romance or butterfly feelings.
Feeling that Iceland engagements had become almost as cliché as an enagement on the Eiffel Tower, I had planned to propose during a trip to Northern Ireland, where we were staying with members of an amazing 24-7 Prayer community in Belfast. I had ordered a hand-crafted engagement ring from Greece, and I wanted to surprise Jess with a romantic day trip into the countryside, probably to the Causeway Coast or Mourne Mountains. I would find a lookout or pretty rock or deserted beach where I would swoop onto one knee, pull out the ring and create a moment to remember for the rest of our lives.
Then came the the day.
My vague, idealised plan soon evaporated when I looked out the window and saw what can only be described as an Irish version of a monsoon, with heavy rain lashing down from thunder grey skies. The idea of driving out into the coldness of the Irish countryside and finding a slippery wet rock in the storm somewhere seemed about as romantic as proposing in a Tesco’s car park. Plus, I was without an engagement ring, as it had taken longer to arrive from Greece than I had anticipated.
Plan A was slipping through my hands, so I had to rapidly form a Plan B. Our first stop was a little caravan on an industrial estate which the prayer community use as a mobile prayer room. My first thought was that I could propose here, the most unlikely of places, and also highly symbolic of a movement that had shaped both of our lives in a significant way. Something I have failed to mention is that Jess was expecting me to propose, just because she can read me like a book and knew that I was uncharacteristically nervous. But the image of a cold caravan by a warehouse just didn’t seem to fit the romantic ideal that I was still clinging on to, so after a few long, awkward silences I decided we should head into the city centre. The day before I had spotted a quaint little alleyway somewhere in the city centre, now I had to somehow find it, keep calm, pick my moment and pop the question.
Shortly after we parked up, we had an argument outside St Ann’s cathedral. I can’t remember what it was about, but most likely a mixture of my anxiety, and Jess being “hangry” and both of us being cold and wet. But I do remember thinking that this day was becoming more and more distant from even the most liberal definition of romantic idyll. After a few minutes we made our peace, and I decided that a nice lunch would be the best thing. We had a delicious meal at organic restaurant “Made in Belfast”, and we talked and I began to remember actually why we were getting engaged. We were two unlikely, quirky friends, whose paths had somehow converged in Iceland, and we were just deciding that we would like this to continue into the future. That somehow we were stronger together than apart, and loving companions for the adventures (and trials) the future would bring. That the journey was more important than the moment. It’s easy to try to create perfect moments when beauty often lies in the imperfections, the stupid arguments, the things that go wrong that ruin our best laid plans.
After we had filled our stomachs and paid the bill, we wandered out into streets of Belfast. I soon found my alleyway, with it’s pretty lights strung across between old brick buildings on each side of the path.
I nervously picked my spot and was about to drop to my knee, but realised we had an audience of bored looking locals in the pub staring out the window as they ate their lunch. I awkwardly asked Jess to go a bit further, but then we were faced with an army of businessmen who suddenly appeared at the end of the alley. Frustrated, and feeling a bit like I was in a movie trying to lose the bad guys, I remembered a quirky little side alleyway and took Jess’s hand and led her down there. The alleyway was painted with all kinds of murals of just about every famous person from Belfast you have every heard of (and probably more you have not). It had absolutely no symbolic significance whatsoever, but it was spontaneous, and Jess loves spontaneity. It was here, as larger than life image of Gloria Hunniford looked on, that I dropped to one knee, with an imaginary ring, and asked Jess to marry me.
Now, with the advent of “engagement photography”, I pictured the proposal moment lingering in the air, that maybe I would spend several minutes on my knee, that there would be a magic in the atmosphere that transcends time, and that we would go on to run through cornfields, hand in hand, dressed in pastel shades in the evening sunlight.
In fact, the moment was one of the most anti-climactic either of us can remember, and over in less than five seconds. Jess said “yes” before I had barely asked and we were left standing in the alleyway wondering “Was that it?" Before we had time to even enjoy the moment, a hidden door in the mural opened, and a rather grumpy looking lady came out and lit a cigarette right next to us. It was like an actor inappropriately walking onto stage in completely the wrong scene, Romeo and Juliet turning into Shakespearean farce. We were left, a strange trinity in the alleyway, me, Jess and the sullen smoking lady who had unwittingly become part of our engagement moment. All the heroes of Belfast from the ages stood by, silently as perplexed as we were.
Feeling a little awkward with our new companion, we quickly moved on through more rain and went to drink some really good coffee together. Sitting there, simply enjoying the friendship, I realised the secret to a successful marriage would be in these small moments of talking, listening and being together, rather than trying to invest all my emotion and energy into one faltering and brief moment in time. Maybe I had failed as a dramatist, but I began to look forward to giving all I had to succeed at being a good husband.