Picnic Culture & History

Paula Sutton of Hill House Vintage wrote something in Country Living recently that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about. She was describing her Norfolk village fête — the bunting politics, the cake table, the judge who once borrowed a hedge trimmer from a competitor and will never fully escape that fact — and she ended with this:

“Everyone leaves slightly sunburnt or mildly damp and carrying a plant they hadn’t planned on buying.”

Paula Sutton of Hill House Vintage wrote something recently in Country Living that stopped me mid-cup of tea.

She was writing about her Norfolk village fête — the bunting politics, the cake competition, the particular passive-aggressive undercurrent of a judge who once borrowed a hedge trimmer from a competitor and will never, ever fully escape that fact. And at the very end, she wrote this:

"Everyone leaves slightly sunburnt or mildly damp and carrying a plant they hadn't planned on buying."

I read it three times. Sent it to my mum. Thought about it for the rest of the week.

Somewhere in Britain right now, someone is looking out of a window at a sky that can't quite decide what it wants to do, thinking: maybe next week. Maybe next week I'll finally do the picnic. Maybe when it's warmer. Maybe when I've got the right basket. Maybe when the children are less feral, the grass isn't damp, and I've found a recipe that isn't just a sad bag of crisps and apology.

Here is what I want to say to that person, very gently, with deep affection: stop waiting.