Determined in spite of the problems


In some countries picnics are a way of life. We British were never meant to picnic but we battle
on, regardless of the wind, rain and thick cloud that appears quicker than you can unfasten the
leather straps on a picnic basket. Regardless of nettles and wasps’ nest, and of barbed wire. We
know that fresh air sharpens the appetite and lifts the spirits. Sunshine and a light breeze can
make even a sandwich twice the meal it is indoors. In short, food tastes better outdoors. But there
is more to it than that. The need to picnic is part of our culture and nothing is going to stop us.


Unreal but unforgettable


The perfect picnic exists only in a far off corner of our mind; an escape, a place to go and
daydream. We never have, and almost certainly never will have, that idyllic outdoor meal on a
tartan rug by a babbling stream, because as they say, it’s all in the mind. What is so mystifying
is the similarity between everyone’s memories of the perfect picnic. So just when did we experience
that magical meal in a buttercup-strewn meadow? And how come we can remember every last detail of
it when we know very well that it never actually happened?


Disappointed but cheered up by the meal


The reasons not to picnic are outnumbered only by the several good reasons why we should. For every
hornets’ nest and forgotten corkscrew there are twice as many melting cheeses and sweet, ripe
tomatoes for us to put in our basket. Each beauty spot littered with abandoned fridges is easily
outnumbered by the thought of loaves of crusty bread and slices of cool melon. In other words, it
is the food that saves the day. Get that right, and nothing short of a tidal wave can dampen our
enthusiasm.


Unplanned but more likely to succeed


If it is to have a hope of turning our right, however, a picnic must be a snap decision. So, rule
number one is never set a date weeks in advance. Picnics are part of life in countries with a
steady climate. In Britain, they tend to depend totally on what the sky is doing on the day. Which
meants doing nothing until the last minute, like it or not.


Willing to accept that anywhere will do


Then we must find that secret spot. The correct location isn’t everything. We can spread out our
cloth in a lay-by if we must. We have been led to believe that it is necessary to picnic in an
English meadow. But with one half of the countryside under a blanket of yellow rape-seed fields,
and the other half turned into golf courses, we can no longer be so fussy. Hardened picnickers know
that every place big enough to unpack a basket is fair game.


Soaked but happy with the simple life


I have to admit that I have a soft spot for rained-out picnics. Not out of a sense of spite, but
because I like the smell of sandwiches, drenched dogs and flasks of coffee in a damp car. Nostalgia
no doubt, but it is as fine a seasoning for a meal as salt and pepper. As far as I am concerned,
five people in a car passing around packets of cheese and onion crisps and chunks of meat pie is
far more fun that pushing a china plate of expensive food around a white linen picnic cloth.


Bigger is definitely better


But you must be generous. No one will thank you for that miserable tub of dip and packet of pitta
bread you picked up at the corner shop. There must be plenty to eat. A whole cheese costs less than
lots of small bits and looks vastly more interesting. A huge bowl of cherries will make ten times
the impression of a chopped up fruit salad. Think on a large scale, but think simple.


Sad but unfortunately true


If all this sounds a bit like battle plans, then it is only because that’s what we will need. We
can organise the food, the location and the friends. We can pack our picnic with care and even
remember the mustard, but we need to remember also that we are dealing with something bigger than
us all: the simple fact that the British were never born to eat outdoors.