CAMBRIDGE LETTER
Old habits
BILL KIRKMAN
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Hosting picnics or garden parties seems an ordeal given the fickleness of the English weather, yet they are an essential feature of ‘the English summer’.
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Like most of my fellow countrymen, I am too old, or too young, or too set in my ways, or too perverse, to change the habits of a lifetime.
This is the season for garden parties. The name conjures up — or is intended to conjure up — a picture of cheerful conversation in a beautiful setting, in the sunlight. The conversation is relaxed, and the party goers are enjoying tea and
sandwiches, or wine and savoury snacks, depending on the time of day.
That is the idealised view. The reality is often rather different, because it is affected by the unpredictable English weather. Standing miserably in the rain, eating soggy sandwiches is often the reality, and one might reasonably argue that in the English climate it makes little sense to plan a garden party.
The same can be said of picnics. Packing food and drink into a basket and taking it to a wood or field, where it is bound to be shared by insects as you sit uncomfortably on a rug, suggests at the least a measure of eccentricity. Why on earth would you choose this self-imposed punishment when you could eat happily at home with far less trouble, and be dry?
Against odds
The logic of this case against garden parties and picnics is surely unassailable — and yet they remain an essential, and, against all the odds, widely enjoyed feature of “the English summer” (in itself a curious concept, and this year certainly an oxymoron).
My observation is not academically detached or objective. In the past few weeks my wife and I have attended two garden parties. One of them, indeed, we organised for the University of the Third Age in Cambridge in the gardens of Wolfson College. Fortune smiled on us. On the day before the party, rain fell with ferocious intensity. On the day after, there was a steady drizzle. If either of these had been the day chosen, guests would have skulked in the hall where the tea and sandwiches were laid out. In fact, on “our” day the sun shone, it was warm, the planned tour of the college garden was a success, and the conversation really was cheerful and relaxed.
We have also just organised a family picnic, and again we were extraordinarily lucky. Everything went as intended. The sun shone, the sandwiches did not become soggy, umbrellas were not needed. (I must admit we did have a Plan B.)
I am sure that our experiences were statistically flawed. We all know that you have only to plan a garden party, or a picnic, to ensure that the heavens will open and the wind will blow at near gale force.
That of course is the real attraction of such events. To be truly English you have to take your pleasures seriously, and remain insanely cheerful as you demonstrate to yourself the fact that, after all, most of us are waterproof, even if the sandwiches are not.
Throughout my childhood, family picnics were a regular treat. Obviously, therefore, I accept that I am an addict. My grandchildren, equally ready to look forward to a picnic as a treat, seem to be developing the same addiction. So, I was reminded, looking round the country park where we held our family picnic, are many others of a younger generation than mine.
Hallowed ritual
As to garden parties, they are a hallowed ritual, certainly in Cambridge. “It’s summer, so we must eat in the garden,” is the unspoken assumption — and most certainly we must not allow anything as unpredictable as English weather to make us change our minds.
I have a tentative theory about all this. It is that the defining characteristic of a true Englishman (and of course a true Englishwoman, because they are just as eccentric) is a total lack of imagination. “We want to enjoy ourselves by eating al fresco, and we shall — in spite of all evidence to the contrary.”
I know it makes no sense at all. I do realise that there are more rational approaches to celebration. But like most of my fellow countrymen, I am too old, or too young, or too set in my ways, or too perverse, to change the habits of a lifetime. I do have one modicum of common sense about matters of this sort; I can still manage to survive without feeling the need to cook uncomfortably on a barbecue — but that habit is rapidly growing, and seems to be infectious. I shall probably hold out against barbecues — but rest assured, next summer will doubtless find me surmounting the pitfalls of the picnic and the grim ordeal of the garden party with every appearance of enjoyment.
Bill Kirkman is an Emeritus Fellow of Wolfson College Cambridge, U.K. Email him at: bill.kirkman@gmail.com
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