Ah, the great English picnic. Wishful thinking sandwiched between two slices of cheap white bread, where hope forever triumphs over reality. Sun-warmed strawberries and ice-cold rose wine make for a fantastic treat in concept, but you end up with, in John Betjeman’s immortal words, “sand in the sandwich” and “hornets in the tea.”
We remain optimistic, dreaming outdoors when the sky is always cornflower blue and the breeze is soft as a newborn baby’s sigh, and wine cools in the shallows of a babbling brook and baskets are opened in the shade of stately oaks, all accompanied by the distant chime of church bells.
Oh I wish I were in England, where there is still honey in my tea, but the reality is not so idyllic.
Dodging cow dung, angry cows, and swarms of attacking flying ants, we bite into gas station scotch eggs that we’ve bought. We taste bad breath and despair, and the poor chicken’s pale legs, its loose skin worn like mourning clothes.
A tartan thermos of lukewarm, overcooked tea, watery orange squash, a few packets of own-brand potato chips, and a Tupperware container full of meat paste sandwiches that even the dog wouldn’t eat.
And of course, it starts to rain, so the remains of this dyspeptic disaster are consumed (but never actually enjoyed) whilst shoved into the back seat of a Ford Fiesta, with the patter of rain punctuating the awkward silence and any traces of enjoyment melting like chocolate ice cream in the midday sun. This is no picnic, but barely edible melancholy.
On the drive home in the dark, with crunchy crumbs covering the seats, we swore we’d never do that again. But of course we did.
If the sun really was shining, what would we do? We’d probably complain about the heat. But British weather aside, picnics can be a wonderful thing. Their origins lie in medieval hunting feasts eaten before and after a hunt. That said, eating lunch outside is hardly the most innovative concept.
“Everything tastes better outdoors,” sighs food writer Claudia Roden. “There’s something about the fresh air and freedom of nature that whets the appetite and enhances the quality and intensity of the senses.”
But it was the Victorians who really enjoyed picnics.
“Everywhere I look I see Fortnum & Mason,” exclaimed Charles Dickens at the Derby, “with every basket wide open and overflowing with the green fluff of lobster salad flowers!” Just as at Henley and Royal Ascot.
Picnics were a chance to escape the constraints and formalities of everyday life, to undress and lose yourself in nature. It’s no wonder that writers loved the freedom that picnics gave their characters.
But few descriptions can compare to the contents of the Mouse’s wicker basket in The Wind Beneath the Willows: “It contains cold chicken,” the Mouse replied briefly, “cold tongue, cold ham, cold beef, pickled cucumbers, salad, French rolls, cress, sandwiches, spotted meat, ginger beer, lemonade, soda, water…”
The Mole is in ecstasy: “Oh my goodness! Oh my goodness,” he squeals as another delicious package is unwrapped.
Still, the secret to a good picnic is simplicity. And ice. Lots of ice. And two coolers, a corkscrew and a sharp knife. Oh, and shade, because on that rare day when the sun shines from a cloudless sky, the last thing you want is to be sitting in its bright light, sweating like a cheap sausage on a disposable grill.
Speaking of sausages, no picnic is complete without some cold sausages, drizzled with English mustard. There are also authentic Scotch eggs, authentic pork pies and pâté en croute, all accompanied by plenty of crispy piccalilli. The eggs are not hard-boiled, so they are peeled and dipped in Maldon salt. A whole roasted chicken is shredded, smeared with mayonnaise and stuffed into a soft bap.
A Spanish tortilla is ideal, gently melting in the centre, and is delicious topped with thick slices of York ham, delicate curls of prosciutto or, if you’ve got money to spare, Spanish pata negra.
Potted prawns are great for picnics and we always eat them straight from the pot at Baxter’s, as is crab drizzled in a lemon-rich dressing, or a nice, gently jiggling quiche (not one of those awful supermarket ones). A salad is always welcome: tomato and mozzarella, egg and bacon (dressed on arrival so the lettuce doesn’t get soggy), or Thai beef, aromatic and spicy with a kick of chilli.
Cheese always rounds off the event with style: buttery Montgomery cheddar and ripe Baron Bigod, along with Scottish raspberries, English cherries and strawberries.
Drinks include rosé and crisp white wines, and a thermos full of pre-made margaritas, Pimms and ginger beer is always a good choice. Detective Conan would love it.
“Life” may be, according to WH Auden, “a picnic on a cliff.” But to avoid the inevitable disappointments, you can do it in your own garden. Then, when the skies darken and the rain starts to fall, you can slip inside and have your picnic in the comfort of your own home.
