TOM PARKER-BOWLES: My recipe for the perfect picnic

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Ah, the great British picnic – wishful thinking jammed between two slices of cheap white bread, the eternal triumph of hope over reality. Because there's no other feast that seems quite so glorious in concept, all sun-warmed strawberries and ice-cold rosé. Only to end up, in John Betjeman's eternal words, with 'sand in the sandwiches', and 'wasps in the tea'.

We're nothing if not optimistic. In our al fresco fantasies the skies are always cornflower-blue, the breeze as soft as a newborn's sigh. And as wine cools in the shallows of a babbling brook, the hamper is unpacked in an oak's stately shade. All accompanied by the distant peal of church bells.

Oh to be in England, and is there honey still for tea. The reality, though, is markedly less bucolic.

In between dodging cowpats, irate cattle and marauding swarms of flying ants, we nibble on service-station Scotch eggs that taste of bad breath and despair. And pallid legs of miserable chicken, its flabby skin worn like a mourning robe.

Tom Parker Bowles taste tests a selection of typical British picnic foods

There's lukewarm, over-stewed tea in a tartan Thermos, watery orange squash, a couple of disconsolate bags of own-brand crisps and a Tupperware container filled with meat paste sandwiches that even the dog won't touch.

Then of course, it starts to rain, so the rest of this dyspeptic disaster is consumed (but never actually enjoyed) while crammed in the back of a Ford Fiesta, the pitter-patter of precipitation punctuating the awkward silence, any vestige of enjoyment melting like a choc ice in the midday sun. This isn't a picnic, rather barely edible depression.

On the drive home in the gathering gloom, the seats sharp with crisp crumbs, we vow to never do it again. Except, of course, we do.

Were the sun to actually shine, I'm not sure what we'd do. Complain, I suppose, about the heat. Vagaries of the British climate aside, though, picnics can be a very wonderful thing. They have their roots in medieval hunting feasts, devoured both before and after the chase. Although eating one's lunch outside is hardly the most revolutionary of concepts.

'Everything tastes better outdoors,' sighs the cookery writer Claudia Roden. 'There is something about fresh air and the liberating effect of nature which sharpens the appetite and heightens the quality and intensity of sensations.'

Ah, the great British picnic – wishful thinking jammed between two slices of cheap white bread, the eternal triumph of hope over reality (stock image)

But it was the Victorians who really embraced the picnic.

'Look where I will,' cried Charles Dickens at the Derby, 'I see Fortnum & Mason. All the hampers fly wide open and the green downs burst into a blossom of lobster salad!' Just like at Henley and Royal Ascot.

A picnic was a chance to escape the strictures and formalities of everyday life, to unlace that bodice and abandon oneself to nature. Little wonder that writers loved the freedom that a picnic allowed their characters.

But few descriptions beat the contents of Ratty's wicker basket in The Wind In The Willows. 'There's cold chicken inside it,' replied the Rat briefly, 'coldtonguecoldhamcoldbeefpickled gherkinssaladfrenchrollscresssandwichespottedmeatgingerbeerlemonadesodawater...'

Mole is suitably ecstatic. 'O, my! O, my,' he squeaks as yet another delectable package is unwrapped.

Still, the key to a good picnic is simplicity. And ice. Lots of ice. Along with a couple of cool boxes, a corkscrew and a sharp knife. Oh, and shade. Because on that rare day that the sun does beam down from a cloudless sky, the last thing you want to be is sitting in its full glare, sweating like cheap sausages on a disposable grill.

There's no other feast that seems quite so glorious in concept, all sun-warmed strawberries and ice-cold rosé (stock image)

Talking of sausages, no picnic is complete without some decent cold ones, served with a pot of English mustard. Proper Scotch eggs too, along with serious pork pies and pate en croute, served with a pile of crunchy piccalilli.Eggs, not quite hard-boiled, to be peeled and dipped in Maldon salt, and whole roast chicken, ready to be torn apart, slathered with mayonnaise and stuffed in soft baps.

A Spanish tortilla never goes amiss, preferably gently oozing in the centre. Along with fat slices of York ham, delicate curls of prosciutto or even, if you're feeling particularly flush, Spanish pata negra.

Potted shrimps are perfect picnic fodder, always Baxters and eaten straight from the pot. As is a dressed crab, with lots of lemon juice, and a decent quiche (not the supermarket horrors), gently wobbling. Salad is always a welcome guest, tomato and mozzarella, egg and bacon, (dressed on arrival so the lettuce doesn't go soggy) or Thai beef, fragrant and fiery with chillies.

The key to a good picnic is simplicity. And ice. Lots of ice. Along with a couple of cool boxes, a corkscrew and a sharp knife. Oh, and shade (stock image)

Cheese always brings an elegant close to proceedings: a slab of buttery Montgomery's cheddar or a ripe Baron Bigod. Then Scottish raspberries, and English cherries and strawberries.

To drink, rosé and crisp white wine. A Thermos full of ready- mixed margarita always goes down well, along with Pimm's, and lashings of ginger beer. The Famous Five would approve.

'Life,' according to W.H. Auden, may be 'a picnic on a precipice'. But to avoid inevitable disappointment, just do it in your garden. That way, when the skies darken and the rain starts to fall, you can simply slip inside. And picnic in the comfort of your own home.