Would my Mr Darcy impression make for a decent proposal?

I had it all so well planned.

The ring, I was sure, was just right – a mutual friend having made some subtle enquiries as to my (hopefully) bride-to-be’s preferred style.

I’d found a charming cottage in the grounds of a beautifully situated farm not far from Dovedale in the Peak District, and booked it for a long weekend.

On the day after we arrived, I suggested a visit to Chatsworth House, hopeful that it wouldn’t be stuffed full of tourists. The school holidays were over so it seemed a reasonable assumption.

Sure enough, despite glorious afternoon sunshine, the hordes had not descended.

The ring, in its bulky box, was safe in my pocket. I just needed the perfect moment to make my proposal.

We strolled past the 1st Duke of Devonshire’s famous greenhouse, but this close to the main house there were plenty of other visitors around. I didn’t fancy being watched.

Beyond, to the extraordinary Cascade water feature, and still it was a little busy. The outer reaches of the gardens might provide a better backdrop.

The vast rockery offered the possibility of some solitude, and I reached into my pocket to be ready for the perfect spot. A striking vista presented itself but I struggled to get the box out, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

Then, as if from nowhere, a couple appeared from behind some rocks and I hurriedly pushed the box away. A little further on I tried again but there too other visitors suddenly emerged, having previously been somehow unseen.

Beyond the rockery lay the astonishing Emperor Fountain and its surrounding lake, with the southern façade of Chatsworth House in the background. This, I knew, was the perfection I’d been looking for and for a third time I reached for the ring, ready to drop to one knee.

Yet for a third time, I was abruptly interrupted by the appearance of another individual, springing like a jack-in-the-box from behind a large pine tree. I started to wonder if there was a conspiracy afoot – an Austenesque plot to rival the Austenesque scenery.

The day was wearing on and we had found ourselves back where we started. The chance for the proposal I had envisaged appeared to have gone and as we drove back to the cottage I realised I needed a new plan.

A cup of tea later, and with a chicken roasting in the oven, I suggested a short pre-dinner stroll. The idea was met with some reluctance, but I prevailed and we walked out of the farm grounds, turning down a footpath leading to Biggin Dale.

Unbelievably, two other walkers were just ahead. Was I going to be stymied again? I dawdled, letting the hikers, whose minds were seemingly not set on romance, get out of sight.

Finally, the coast was clear, and with the evening sun still casting a loving warmth into the dale, I prised the ring box from my pocket, sprung it open and took to one knee.

Biggin Dale doesn’t have the quite the cachet of Chatsworth House, but perhaps it’s not quite as cheesy. And what did it matter anyway?

There was a “What?!”, a pause, and then – thank the Lord – a “Yes!”.

Eat your heart out, Mr Darcy.