Ah, the Great British Picnic – wishful thinking squeezed between two slices of cheap white bread, the eternal triumph of hope over reality. For no other feast seems so glorious in concept, all sun-baked strawberries and iced rosé. And ending, in the eternal words of John Betjeman, with “sand in the sandwiches” and “wasps in the tea”.
We are optimistic. In our outdoor dreams, the sky is always cornflower blue, the breeze as soft as a newborn’s sigh. And as the wine cools in the shallow waters of a babbling brook, the basket is unpacked in the majestic shade of an oak tree. All accompanied by the distant chime of church bells.
Ah, to be in England, and is there still honey in tea? The reality, however, is decidedly less bucolic.
Amidst cow poop, herds of angry cattle, and swarms of marauding flying ants, we snack on gas station Scotch eggs that taste of bad breath and despair. And the pale feet of a wretched chicken, its flabby skin worn like a mourning gown.
Tom Parker Bowles tries out a selection of classic British picnic dishes
There’s lukewarm, over-brewed tea in a Scottish thermos, watery orange squash, a few sorry bags of store-brand chips, and a Tupperware container full of meat patty sandwiches that even the dog won’t touch.
Then, of course, it starts to rain, and the rest of this dyspeptic disaster is consumed (but never truly enjoyed) as we sit crammed into the back of a Ford Fiesta, the sound of the rain punctuating the awkward silence, any vestige of pleasure melting like chocolate ice cream in the midday sun. This is no picnic, but rather a barely edible depression.
On the way home, in the dark, our seats covered in crunchy crumbs, we swear never to do it again. Except, of course, we will.
If the sun really did shine, I don’t know what we’d do. We’d complain, I suppose, about the heat. But, aside from the vagaries of the British climate, picnics can be a wonderful thing. They have their origins in medieval hunting feasts, devoured before and after the hunt. Although eating your lunch outside is hardly the most revolutionary concept.
“Everything is better outdoors,” sighs food writer Claudia Roden. “The fresh air and the liberating effect of nature whet the appetite and increase the quality and intensity of sensations.”
Ah, the Great British Picnic – wishful thinking squeezed between two slices of cheap white bread, the eternal triumph of hope over reality (archive image)
But it was the Victorians who really embraced the picnic.
“Wherever I look,” cried Charles Dickens at the Derby, “I see Fortnum & Mason. All the baskets are opening and the lawns are blooming in a lobster salad bloom!” Just like at Henley and Royal Ascot.
A picnic was an opportunity to escape the constraints and formalities of everyday life, to unlace one’s bodice and surrender to nature. It is no wonder that writers loved the freedom that the picnic offered their characters.
But few descriptions surpass the contents of Ratty’s wicker basket in The Wind in the Willows. “There’s cold chicken in it,” the Rat replied shortly, “cold tongue cold ham cold beef pickled gherkins salad french bread watercress sandwich poached meat ginger lemon beer water…”
Mole is quite delighted. “Oh my God! Oh my God!” he exclaims as another delicious package is unwrapped.
But the key to a good picnic is simplicity. And ice. Lots of ice. And a few coolers, a corkscrew, and a sharp knife. Oh, and shade. Because on those rare days when the sun shines in a cloudless sky, the last thing you want is to be sitting in its bright light, sweating like cheap sausages on a disposable grill.
There’s no other feast that seems as glorious in concept, all sun-warmed strawberries and iced rosé (archive image)
Speaking of sausages, no picnic is complete without some good cold sausages, served with a pot of English mustard. Real Scotch eggs too, as well as serious pork pies and mince pie, served with a pile of crispy piccalilli. Eggs, not quite hard-boiled, to peel and dip in Maldon salt, and whole roast chicken, ready to be torn apart, slathered with mayonnaise and stuffed into soft buns.
A Spanish tortilla is always a delight, preferably slightly melted in the center. Accompany it with thick slices of York ham, thin curls of prosciutto or even, if you’re feeling particularly rich, Spanish pata negra.
Potted prawns are a perfect picnic food, always from Baxters and eaten straight from the pot. As is dressed crab, with plenty of lemon juice, and a good quiche (not the supermarket horrors), which wobbles gently. Salad is always welcome, tomato and mozzarella, egg and bacon (dressed on arrival so the lettuce is not soggy) or Thai beef, fragrant and fiery with chillies.
The key to a good picnic is simplicity. And ice. Lots of ice. With a couple of coolers, a corkscrew and a sharp knife. Oh, and shade (archive image)
Cheese is always the cherry on top: a slice of buttery Montgomery’s Cheddar or a ripe Baron Bigod. Then Scottish raspberries, cherries and English strawberries.
To drink, rosé and chilled white wine. A thermos filled with prepared margarita always works, accompanied by Pimm’s and ginger beer. The Five would agree.
According to WH Auden, “Life may be a picnic on the edge of a precipice.” But to avoid inevitable disappointment, just do it in your garden. That way, when the sky darkens and the rain starts to fall, you can just slip inside. And picnic in the comfort of your own home.
