A Proposal on a Piton
Saint Lucia, our fourth Caribbean country in four increasingly consuming days, offered something a little different from the usual island-tour-and-rum-punch routine we’d lavishly grown accustomed to. Instead of lounging beneath swaying palms sipping on colourful cocktails, we had somehow signed ourselves up to climb Gros Piton, a peak that loomed intimidatingly high, especially given our current fitness levels. But this wasn’t just a hike. Should we successfully drag ourselves to the summit without collapsing dramatically en route, I planned to drop to one knee and present Lowri with a proposal of monumental significance: partnering me in the darts tournament scheduled for later that evening. Should she agree to that major commitment, a marriage proposal would swiftly follow.
Several months in the planning, my grand romantic gesture faced two pressing concerns. First, there was the small but significant issue of where to stash the engagement ring. Should I hide it deep within my suitcase, risking the airline losing the luggage entirely (a statistically remote yet entirely plausible scenario), or gamble on stowing it in my hand luggage and endure the dread of a thorough bag search by an overly enthusiastic border official, watched intently by my suspiciously observant partner? I settled on the latter, successfully smuggling the ring through security without raising even an eyebrow. The second issue was the location: not having the faintest idea about any of the island’s geography or romantic hotspots, I resorted to carrying the precious cargo everywhere we went, optimistically hoping that a suitably idyllic spot would present itself. Today, at long last, was that day.
Gros Piton, an impressively steep and aggressively pointy mountain, required a two-hour minibus journey along winding roads just to reach its base. Our hiking group consisted of seven anxious visitors plus two guides, who cheerfully briefed us on all the exciting ways we could potentially die. With humidity levels stubbornly in the eighties, we were relieved to find the trail mercifully shaded beneath a thick, jungle-like canopy—offering at least partial respite from the relentless Caribbean sun. During one of our many enforced hydration stops, I casually leaned against a conveniently placed tree—only for our guide to release an involuntary shriek usually reserved for collapsing tourists. Convinced I’d destroyed a priceless botanical specimen, I stepped away sheepishly, only to learn the cause of her alarm was my chosen tree being home to a giant tarantula nest. Peering cautiously into the darkness, we glimpsed one enormous, hairy leg—which proved entirely sufficient—before quickly continuing to climb.
Several sweat-soaked hours later, reduced to scrambling uphill on all fours like geriatric mountain goats, we tackled the final, mercilessly steep stretch before the mountain finally surrendered and flattened into a modestly sized rocky summit. The view from the top was nothing short of spectacular—lush green hills, endless ocean, and several other similarly shattered climbers collapsed nearby, desperately rediscovering how to breathe. Clearly, this was the moment. Handing my phone nervously to our bemused guide, I begged him to stop filming panoramas and focus on the task at hand. My trembling knee buckled helpfully, saving me the trouble of theatrically kneeling, and I shakily produced the ring from my bum bag. Thankfully, the chorus of surprised gasps from strangers and overly enthusiastic cheers from Americans didn’t obscure the single, vital word I needed to hear clearly: “Yes!”
The overwhelming emotion in that moment was pure relief—rather like Frodo at the trilogy’s end, except that I’d produced a ring atop a volcano instead of hurling one dramatically into its fiery depths. Either way, the difficult part was done, and I was finally free to enjoy the implications of Lowri’s acceptance: spending my life with my best friend, my soulmate, and someone evidently tolerant of a man who folds his boxers. In fact, I was so lost in this blissful haze that I completely forgot about the darts—priorities clearly askew. The descent, though absolute murder on the knees, sped by with alarming ease, no doubt assisted by gravity and the promise of hoppy refreshments at ground level. Soon enough, we were sprawled at a nearby restaurant, toasting our engagement with ice-cold Piton lagers and sampling an absurdly generous buffet of local dishes.
As dusk swiftly approached, our driver’s relaxed island demeanour evaporated entirely, replaced by a sense of urgency normally reserved for getaway drivers. Realising we still had to reach the ship before it casually sailed off without us, he floored it, hurtling down winding roads at terrifying speeds, overtaking anything that dared travel below Mach 3 and almost ending our engagement much sooner than we wanted. Miraculously, we skidded to a halt by the ship with mere minutes to spare, our nerves utterly shredded. Sadly, this chaotic dash meant we had precisely zero time to explore Castries, Saint Lucia’s lively capital—but considering we’d successfully climbed a mountain, greeted a tarantula, and gotten engaged, missing the town seemed an acceptable sacrifice. Perhaps we’ll return for a future anniversary—one celebrated at a far more leisurely pace.
J
