If you needed any convincing that the British picnic is an art form unto itself, Rivals season 2 – the latest installment of the gloriously OTT adaptation of the late Dame Jilly Cooper's novel – has just made the case beautifully. The polo scenes alone are a masterclass in 80s outdoor eating: a sea of faded floral patterns both on the foldable chairs and the summer dresses, strawberries spilling from tupperware and champagne glasses strewn with reckless abandon. There are hunky young men, bare-chested in denim shorts, dogs everywhere, country ladies in proper tweed skirts – and somehow it all looks absolutely right next to a garish orange plastic cool box. Like a Martin Parr photograph, it is aggressively, defiantly, joyfully British. Slightly chaotic, entirely self-conscious, and magnificent for it.
Nowhere else in the world do you encounter this collision of formality and informality, of effort and studied nonchalance. It’s something Dame Jilly understood completely. Which brings us to the Great British Picnic itself. And I don’t mean the sad, semi-improvised version – a wilting supermarket sandwich, warm rosé, a single packet of crisps split between four people. We are talking about a proper picnic – the sort that revolves around a great spread of things you really want to eat, with just the right amount of kit to make things civilised.
My mother certainly knew how to do a picnic. For Ascot races or school speech day, she'd dress the fold-up table with a crisp linen tablecloth, silver cutlery, china plates and stemmed wine glasses. Delicious smells would escape from the baskets as we unpacked – often plates of tapas she had fallen in love with ever since discovering the Moro cookbook – and popped champagne corks. Despite the formality of the presentation, the menu would be beautifully simple: dressed crab in the shell with her rich homemade mayonnaise, salad and torn baguette. Dessert would be bowls of warm ripe strawberries with gallons of double cream and a little sprinkle of sugar. Then there would be coffee – strong and black, in tiny cups – and always a box of dark chocolate truffles. As she used to say with no trace of irony: ‘I like to keep it simple’.
Childhood riverbank picnics were a more relaxed affair: a rug laid on the grass, wicker baskets filled with roast chicken, sliced ham, potato salad and a savoury tart. Even then, there was always a cool box filled with beer and wine and we ate off pretty plastic plates. There’d be summer fruit and a cake to slice for pudding. Swimming after lunch, then lying out in the sun on towels well into the afternoon. Eventually she’d bring out a thermos of tea and we'd cut another slice of cake.
Those picnics set a standard it's hard to shake. There is nothing wrong with an M&S ‘picky bits’ run – we have all done it and we will all do it again, usually in a car park 20 minutes before arriving somewhere. But a well-planned picnic with home-cooked food is simply a different experience. Good bread, a well-selected cheeseboard, that jar of pickles and mustard to go with the ham. Cold roast chicken that you can tear apart and serve with aioli; a potato salad dressed while still warm so it actually absorbs the flavour; chilled drinks that are genuinely cold, not swimming in a box of melted ice.
The effort, when it's made, is always repaid. Eating outside does something to appetite and to mood that's hard to explain rationally – food tastes better, conversation flows more easily, time moves differently. The French have their grand traditions around it, the Italians their equivalent, but the British version – blustery, cheerfully impractical, aggressively determined to enjoy itself despite the weather – has a particular charm that's all its own.
These days, the picnics I make emulate my mother's at the more rustic end of the scale. I'm usually more rug and cushions than silver service. The more you can eat with your fingers, the better. I do insist on melamine plates over paper, and glass or enamel for drinking from. I do now always bring a table, too – after a hungry whippet hoovered up an entire plate of Vitello tonnato the moment I turned my back.
The real beauty of a picnic is that it's one of the great democratic pleasures. It doesn't require a garden, or a table (in most cases), or a kitchen nearby. A good rug, a pretty view, tasty food, and entertaining company – ideally one’s own version of Taggie, or Rupert Campbell-Black. That's the whole recipe.
The only picnic kit you really need (and the things you don't)
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- Paper plates. Plates travel – use the real ones, or invest in some good enamelware.
- Plastic cutlery. Always miserable to eat with and it always ends up everywhere.
- Anything that needs heating up. Keep it simple, keep it cold, keep it good.
Perfect picnic snacks
Essential picnic recipes from the House and Garden archive
The picnic anchor. Roast the chicken the day before, let it cool completely, and tear it into pieces the next day to assemble the salad at the picnic – there is something deeply satisfying about tearing into a cold roast chicken outdoors. You could also just make the whole roast chicken and serve with the Caesar mayo and a potato salad.
The most important rule of potato salad: dress it while warm. This version, with a herby, mustardy dressing and juicy green beans will sit well in a tupperware (just add the rocket last minute).
The perfect picnic egg dish — it travels better than a quiche, slices cleanly, and is excellent at room temperature. Make it the morning of, slice it at home, and reassemble in the tin for transport.
Quiches can be fragile to transport so I love a galette. Savoury or sweet. This is a delicious and filling version and would be the perfect vegetarian option.
A good sausage roll is the single item most likely to cause a scrum at a picnic. These ones, coated with sesame seeds, are several notches above anything you'll find in a petrol station.
Packed with flavour, easy to assemble and with a generous amount of fresh herbs, and a punchy dressing. It improves with sitting, making it ideal for picnic prep the night before.
Ripe, warm strawberries or raspberries and cream are the definitive picnic pudding. They travel well and make everyone unreasonably happy. However, for an added extra or something to nibble on later in the afternoon Diana Henry's chocolate cake recipe (best eaten with added cream and fruit) is the one to reach for.
