There used to be a tradition in my family.
I'm talking now about the good old days when I was a wee lad. In other words, a very long time ago.
The tradition, which at the time was immutable was that on Easter Sunday we had the first picnic of the year.
There was another tradition which confused me a bit at the time and that was that the picnic had to include Simnel Cake. That was a rather nice mush of fruit cake with layers of marzipan and part of the cooking process was that someone had to hold a two bar electric fire over the top of it to toast the marzipan. That was usually my job as it was a pain in the arms.
Of course Simnel Cake wouldn't be allowed these days – much too nice and unhealthy.
The choice of picnic destination was down to a family vote. In other words, my father decided where. His favourite spot was in a wood on the banks of a river somewhere in the middle of Wicklow. I have never been able to rediscover that spot which is a pity as it was a beautiful place. All I know is that it was somewhere in the region of Woodenbridge or Laragh or somewhere.
The family is all gone now and I am the only one left. Well, there is a brother somewhere but he mysteriously vanished some years ago. Leastwise I haven't kept the Easter Picnic tradition up.
I couldn't be bothered cooking a Simnel Cake.
And I still can't find the picnic spot.
And anyway it's too chilly for a fucking picnic.
It was a daft time of year to choose in the first place.