There was a brilliant response to our reader competition for picnic stories, memories and recipes – thanks to everyone who got involved. You can read a selection of the best entries below. The winner was Holly Lynott (10) who wins the prize of a two night break in the Powerscourt Hotel, Co Wicklow including a luxury picnic.
Picnic Times winning entry: THE BES T PICNIC EVER I would like to tell you about the best picnic I ever had. I am entering the competition for my Mómo, as she broke her ankle and could not come on the picnic.
It was a lovely sunny day in Renvyle Connemara, County Galway. I was on my Summer holidays at my Mómo and Dadó’s house, my grandparents. Me and my brother Shane decided to go for a picnic, but couldn’t decide on a place to have it. Then my Dado suggested that we have it up at White Rock where he had his picnics as a small boy 60 years ago. White Rock is a large White Rock at the very top of the mountain that my Mómo and Dadó live at the bottom of. My Mum had packed the picnic basket with the same ingredients my Dado had in his basket when he was a boy. There were 5 eggs in a small tin of beans, a carton of apple juice, some cups, 5 eggcups, a saucepan to boil the eggs in, a bottle of water to boil the eggs and 5 spoons.
We also packed another bag that held wood, newspaper and matches for lighting the small fire to boil the eggs. Once the picnic basket was packed, me, Shane, Dadó, my Mum and my little cousin Charlie started to climb the mountain. It looked a long way up but we made it.
Once we were at the top my Dad lit a small fire with the wood and newspaper. We boiled the eggs and cooked the beans and shared them out. When everything had been demolished, we looked around at the amazing view and the calm sea. It was the best picnic I ever had.
Holly Lynott, age 10, Connemara, Co Galway
THE SWIMMING POOL IN BLACKROCK The outdoor, seawater swimming pool in Blackrock, Co Louth, was Ireland's first 50m pool. The dressing-room walls were buttercup yellow; the grey concrete floor always moist was a breeding ground for athlete's foot and verrucas. The toilets smelled of Jeyes Fluid. The pool itself was Mediterranean blue.
We swam there all summer. Mum had an ancient Volkswagen Beetle. She ferried her brood - my two brothers and me - in the afternoons from the mid- 1960s to the early 1970s. She brought the tartan rug, which she had been given as a wedding present. There was always some sort of picnic to feed us after the swim. Why couldn’t she do picnics like other mothers? The standard fare in the 1960s: white sliced-pan ham sandwiches. Mother had to be different: hard-boiled eggs, bridge rolls, tomatoes, scallions, lettuce and Heinz salad cream. Then fairy cakes with pink butter icing. A piece cut out of the top of each bun was cut in half and positioned as butterfly wings on top of the icing. She battered them up on Fridays, her baking day. Knives, forks, plates, all piled into a cardboard box.
Occasionally I’d swim the length of the pool. I preferred to stay at the shallow end. Daddy’s words ranted in my mind: “Can you put your foot down?”
Sitges, Benidorm and Fuengirola took over from “the Rock”. The pool shut down with the advent of indoor, heated swimming pools. There’s now a block of apartments on the site of the old pool; they have views of the Coolies, Mournes and Ravensdale forest. In winter the brent geese feed on the mussel beds at the end of the village. Migrating waders, gulls and ducks inhabit the strand.
Mimi Goodman, Clonskeagh, Dublin
A GRAND CUP OF TAY Living rurally with three small children, I love taking them through fields on summer days, picnic-basket filled with treats (and healthy snack thrown in so I don't feel like a bad mammy). Packing up to wander home, I'm glad if they enjoyed most of the day without actually killing each other. I wistfully imagine them fondly remembering their childhood as one long happy picnic.
However, the best picnic ever was on a bitingly cold, dark winter evening. Simply a flask of tea, tuna/sweetcorn/mayonnaise sandwiches and a chocolate bar. Since my old father-in-law’s wife died we all look after him but sadly his nights are lonely with only television for company. He hasn’t an ache nor pain, the only signs of ever-increasing age being corns and cataracts. Wobbling slowly to us on his bicycle, it’s a daily miracle that it remains upright. He wants to live to 100; he just might.
One night he watched a programme about the renovation of the Longford Cathedral once gutted by fire. He said he’d love to visit it. We non-committedly said we’d bring him whenever we ‘got the time’. Eventually, one Sunday, we did. Amazed and grateful, he feasted his eyes on the glory of it all. Afterwards, off to the playground. Waiting while the children played, cold from water-logged grass and foggy air seeped into our bones and dripped from our noses. Out from the car-boot came the picnic. Proffered sandwich and mug of scald were eagerly accepted.
“That’s a grand cup of tay, Liz”, he said.
“It tis, John”.
“Grand sandwich”.
“It’s great to have it”, I agreed.
As we warmed up physically and spiritually, the children happily clamoured for theirs. Finishing with the chocolate, we piled back into the car, fan-heater blasting. ‘Must bring him again sometime’, I mused.
Elizabeth Murray, Creggane, Co Roscommon
THE PERFECT PICNIC Mammy gave birth to the four of us within five years, and in our childhood memories, she is always bustling busily in the background. Dad worked long hours too, in his day job, and she helped him on our smallholding, on which we kept hens and "grew our own". Every stitch we wore was homemade, and the click of knitting needles and hum of the Singer sewing machine were the soundtracks to our nights.
So it was, that we rarely got “Sit down quality time” with Mam. However, one Summer morning I overheard Dad begging her to “Get the lot of them out of here”, as he was going to paint downstairs.
Mam packed a large basket, and immediately announced that we were going on an all day picnic. Yipee! What excitement we felt as we reached The Hilly Field, which was only a right of way across the road, and laid down the old patched purple blanket. How important we felt as we snacked incessantly on our endless bounty. Everything tasted so much better in the fresh air. We shelled hard-boiled eggs, savoured sandwiches of our home-grown salads, and sipped homemade vegetable soup and then drinks made from our own red, black and white currants. Mam’s jam was piled thickly onto luscious scones, the raisins and cherries seeping their juices (her secret was to soak them overnight).
The sun shone down as we cuddled close, while Mam revealed a lighter side that we hadn’t glimpsed before. She regaled us with stories and songs, rhymes and riddles, while resting, making daisy chains, after races and games of hide and seek.
All day, we were wrapped in the cocoon of our mother’s love and undivided attention at that perfect picnic, which is a memory we treasure.
Margaret Loughlin, Ferrybridge, Clarina, Co. Limerick.
PICNICS ON INISFALLEN On the shore of Lough Léin in Killarney, holding the golden reins of a magnificent white stead, Niamh persuaded Finn, out hunting with the Fianna, to let his handsome son, Oisín, travel to Tír na nOg to live with her. So the legend goes, and when you're there, where forested mountains cradle the glistening water boasting twenty-nine islands, you can almost believe it.
During the sixth century, enchanted monks built an Abbey on Inisfallen Island where, in nature’s rest, they composed their world-renowned Annals. Deer roam plentifully there now, but mass is still said yearly by the ruins.
While I grew up on a working farm, my father liked to fish. His rowing-boat was big enough to fit half a dozen people. With our picnic secured on planks of wood underneath, a rod would trail a line in the water lapping against the sides. Sometimes a trout or salmon would bite. Any catch was kept cold in a pail of water.
The boat would eventually grind against the manmade jetty and be secured with a rope tied to a post. Beyond the grassy clearing, stone walls beckoned. We would scamper under the archways, through openings, collecting twigs for the fire, started with newspaper brought for the purpose.
Tea leaves were tossed into water in a steel kettle, blackened from use. Over the flames, it was soon steaming. From our basket, mother would uncover a loaf of bread, and slice it. The filling consisted of butter with tomato or corn beef.
Simple as it sounds, nothing tasted better. We drank from pewter mugs. Dessert was a sweet or biscuit. Speech was optional. Chaffinches and bumblebees entertained us.
Afterwards the fire was carefully quenched. The return trip to Ross Castle rekindled our excitement, and unlike poor Oisín's fate, usually went without hitch. Caroline Hurley, Donabate, Co Dublin
PICNICS OF MY 90S PAST When I hear the word "picnic", it brings me back to simper times of my 1990 to early 2000s youth. Back in the good old days when technology was considered a novelty, picnics were the ultimate source of enjoyment. Every summer my parents brought the four of us out to Donadea forest in County Kildare, the ultimate picnic destination.
Even as a young child, I always appreciated the beautiful woodlands, its historical features and the many walkways and nature trails within the forest. I was particularly fond of the “wishing bridge” that crossed over a glistening lake in the sunshine. We went mostly in the summertime, in the sunny (and sometimes hot) Irish weather that always seems to have a breeze that blew the likes of tissues and plastic crockery off the wooden picnic benches and chequered picnic rugs.
We used to bring a car full of food and activities, from tennis rackets to frisbees to footballs and that velcro ball and catch game that I used to love playing. Mam and Dad always brought the big cooler box full of milk, cartons of juice, sandwiches, fruit and pots of petits filous yoghurts or frubes, along with a large flask of tea, biscuits and a six pack of hula hoops. There was a choice of ham, cheese or banana sandwiches, and sometimes even chicken breast ones that was left over from a roast dinner if we were lucky! There's a lovely café there where we used to buy ice pops or ice creams afterwards. The selection ranged from the old school Solero Shots , Sparkles, Fat Frogs and Spongebob Square Pants ice pops. I can still remember the fresh scents of woodlands, sunscreen and grasslands as I reminisce on our best picnic days. Aoife Bennett, Co Kildare
THE PICNIC TO BEAT THEM ALL Mmmm… I wondered if he had a "Plan B". My windscreen wipers waved frantically, struggling to clear the driving July rain that would surely scupper my boyfriend's plan for the 'picnic to beat all picnics.'
It was early days in our relationship and I knew he would be keen to impress. “Don’t worry about the picnic” I said, almost apologetically, as he opened the front door with a cheerful smile. “I won’t” he replied; a mysterious grin on his face. ‘Either this guy has been so busy picnic–packing that he hasn’t noticed the rain or he “Should have gone to Specsavers” ‘, I thought impishly.
“I promised you a picnic, and a picnic you shall have” he said, as he gestured towards the sitting room door. An avid hill-walker himself, I was convinced that some protective rain-gear awaited me in the sitting room….. bless him! I couldn’t have been more wrong. A Foxford picnic rug was spread on the floor, in front of a cosy fire. My eyes darted from salmon to salads, breads, spreads and cup-cakes. Every detail attended to: even plastic plates and cutlery, to add authenticity. Heck, he even had a stereo run on batteries and a camera on a tripod, for the essential ‘selfies’! A thermos flask of tea and a bottle of my favourite Chardonnay stood sentinel on the picnic rug.
‘I could get used to this,’ I thought, as we tucked in to the gastronomic feast on the floor, oblivious to the dreadful weather outside.
Yes indeed, it was the ‘picnic to beat all picnics’!
My boyfriend subsequently became my husband: ‘The husband to beat all husbands’…though not literally of course!
An indoors picnic? Now there's an idea for our Irish summers. Sinéad Tracey, County Leitrim
FLUSHED CHEEKS AND A FIRST DATE It was a first date. A stroll up Keeper Hill to take in the views and each other. He told a joke as we left the car park, took hold of my hand with the punch line and didn't let go until the summit two hours later. Pack some food, he said. My rucksack held toonsbridge mozzarella, aged Serrano ham, plump irish tomatoes and a freshly baked ciabatta loaf. A few leaves of basil wrapped in kitchen paper, glistening black jewels of kalamata olives and a bottle of good pinot noir completed my picnic. I just prayed he wasn't a buffalo wings and cheese 'n onion tayto type of guy.
The weather became more blustery as we climbed the track, ears and noses getting nipped in the wind, eyes streaming with tears. Stops on the way up allowed me to catch my breath and him to catch my eye. I thought he was the most handsome man I had ever seen, whereas I had my beanie pulled down low and a nose becoming red from the constant wiping. At least my flushed cheeks looked healthy.
At the summit, a damp mist had joined the strong wind. We scrambled over the stones surrounding the trig point for any shelter in a storm and hunkered down out of the gale. With cold hands we ripped chunks of bread, layered soft creamy spoonfuls of cheese with slices of ham and bit into ripe tomatoes. We wiped seedy tomato juice off each others chins while glasses of strangely cold red wine were poured. It was a feast of textures and tastes and we smiled at the magic of it all. As we repacked the rucksack, he leaned across and kissed me for the first time. That was all the dessert I needed. Jeannie Buckland
OUR SUMMER PICNICS Every summer in July my parents, my sister, my brother, my Aunt, Uncle and two cousins and my Granny, would head off on our summer holidays to Kilkee, Co Clare. Such excitement, two car loads of our family and stuff driving to our holiday house and I will always remember the journey there.
We sat in the back seat in some kind of Renault car and chatted, sang, played guessing games, and collected number plate numbers as we motored on.
But the highlight of our long journey was our stop off in Limerick Junction where we pulled in for the grub or our picnic.
Out came two picnic tables, chairs for the adults and the rug for us children.
But the food was something else, two big saucepans wrapped in tea towels full of fluffy boiled new potatoes, smothered with butter (still warm) , second saucepan was garden peas with mint and butter. Two tupperware boxes full of boiled cooked ham, roast cooked chicken, stuffing and of course the usual mixed salad, with hard boiled eggs, scallions, tomatoes, and cucumber, salad cream, a feast in the making.
Afterwards my Aunt would produce a massive apple or rhubarb tart & the large flasks with tea already milked in them, what a meal, al fresco, no worries, stress free, no mobile phone, just happiness in anticipation of a fantastic three week holiday ahead.
The most important thing I remember was we were all relaxed and ready to enjoy a family holiday and this picnic was the starting point, such a simple fun activity for everyone, and nothing like a good old-fashioned picnic in the sun.
Three generations, with three different sets of needs, all happy, all content all full, and eager to get on the road again and continue our Summer holidays. Miriam Fortune,Trim, Co Meath.
LE PICNIC Life's a picnic so they say and thus it seemed to us in this hazy 1989 summer photo in Versailles. We were all in our salad days, I and my now husband had thrown up two permanent and pensionable jobs in Ireland to seek adventure in Paris (much to the horror of our families). The French adore eating a l'exterieur and le pique-nique is an art form. Any guest we had (and there were many) was treated to the luxury of a picnic where rain could be generally discounted and the wine both cheap AND delicious. And thus my formula for a great picnic was born-a rug, bottle of red, fresh baguette, a roast chicken from the charcuterie, oozing a glorious smell, patisserie which doesn't drip or squash, whatever fruit is best at the market that day, a dollop of good company. We stayed there all day and into the night, there were spectacular fireworks because it was the anniversary of the French revolution. La vie was indeed belle.
25 years on, we all still love a good picnic-though now we opt for a picnic table as our creaking knees don't do so well on damp grass. But hey, life's still a picnic, you've just got to choose the right spot. Anne Burke, Dublin
CODDLE AND RED LEMONADE Every year, come what may with the weather, we'd pack up the car, collect the in laws, and along with children, dogs and blankets would venture down to Brittas Bay.
One year it was so cold we packed a huge pot of coddle along with the usual fare of roasted chicken, potato salad, Sheila’s apple tart, a fresh batch loaf, 1lb of butter, red lemonade and enough water to make two big pots of tea.
The faces of the other poor frozen tourists looking with ill concealed hunger at us feasting on the coddle under the shelter in the car park will stay with me for life. Ah what great memories!
Susan O'Byrne, Dublin
UNITED WE PICNIC
“We’ll stop at the next picnic spot,” my Dad shouted at us, barely audible over the sound of the rain lashing down on the windscreen of our Datsun Cherry. It was 1985 and my brother, my parents and I were on our annual pilgrimage trek from Dublin to Kerry.
Every year my mum would optimistically pack boiled eggs, chicken sandwiches, hunks of red cheddar cheese and Yellow Pack crisps into Quinnsworth plastic bags. Oranges were always included but rarely eaten. What we were really after was the six pack of United Bars which would stare tantalisingly at us from the top of the bags at my Mum’s feet in the front of the car.
Three hours into the journey we began to crane our necks, trying to spot some recognisable landmark through the rain which might point the way to the Forest picnic spot we had miraculously found the year before. Previous to that we had always “drummed up” (my Dad’s phrase) at the side of the road while huge trucks made our flasks of hot tea shudder on the car’s bonnet.
Both front windows were wide open, spitting dirty spray at us when my brother spotted the Forest. My Dad screeched the Datsun into reverse and we aquaplaned into the picnic spot where two wooden tables materialised through the fog.
Coaxed out of the car by the promise of two United Bars, my brother and I sat resignedly in our matching raincoats and munched our speciality cheese hunks with crisp coatings while the trucks sped furiously by just feet away.
Then, the Gods sang, the skies cleared and the sun came out. To celebrate we banged our eggs on the bench to peel them and my Mum cracked open a bottle of Cream Soda. Then we expertly nibbled all the chocolate off the sides of our Uniteds before the blessed sun could melt it.
Food finished my Dad stuffed our rubbish into the Quinnsworth bags and hopped merrily off to the bin. Within seconds he had returned, sprinting around the picnic tables followed by several furious and persistent wasps who proceeded to zoom angrily up his shirt. We ran, panicking and laughing back to the car.
My poor Dad spent the remaining three hours of the journey hunched over the wheel of the Datsun, his back aflame with wasp stings. My brother and I sat sated in the back seat, glancing sidelong at each other every few miles, stifling our laughter.
Mum was shouting something from the front. “ Next year let’s just get chips,” she said. We never did.
Jan Doran, Gorey, Co Wexford
MAKING HAY AND PICNICS Every summer in between 1956-1962 my sister Teresa and I were instructed by our mother to walk from the railway cottage to the farm at Doon close to Borris-in-Ossory about a mile away. Our task was to bring tea and sandwiches to our Father and Uncles who were busy making hay in the five acre field across the railway. We really loved this time with school closed and looking forward to the hay making in July.
We crossed two large fields before arriving at the railway field overlooking the Slieve Bloom Mountains. There were two lovely stone stepping styles at the iron gate which we climbed over since demolished in 2012 with a modern upgrade by CIE for safety of cattle crossing. Looking across the field we would catch a glimpse of our two tall Uncles busy forking the hay at full speed in case the rain might descend on top of their precious work to dampen and destroy their efforts.
Delighted with our arrival hungry and thirsty from the hard physical work we all sat down with our backs to a hay cock and devoured the sandwiches my mother had made and drank tea from the enamel white mugs. Bill would give us red lemonade stored in his hessian shopping bag.
“That will do your thirst good after the long walk he would say.” The sweet smelling fragrance of the hay was what I liked most at this time of year often witnessing frogs jumping out at enormous speed when the hay was being turned with the pitch fork. I was fortunate to have such memories of summer picnics in the hay fields of Laois.
Mary Conliffe, Co. Kildare
PICNIC JOY AT THE SHELLY BANKS It was not the smell of new mown hay, not even cut grass, but rather the smell of the pumping station (otherwise known as the sewage works), that signified the proximity of the picnic location.
As a child growing up in Ringsend, I thought it was the smell of seaweed and it meant we were nearly at the Shelly banks.We would reach the ESB station where we filled our large brown enamel teapot from the tap and tried to contain ourselves and not spill anything until we reached the spot.
At the Shelly Banks we were greeted by the smell of woodsmoke from the fires of people already on the strand. We gathered sticks or whatever was lying about and duly lit our fire, on which the teapot of water was placed for boiling, and without which there could be no picnic.
The fire was coaxed into life with much blowing on the one spark, while children of various ages had a dip in the sea. The mixture of tea leaves and sugar was added to the boiling water and shivering in out towels, we drank the best tea you ever tasted.
Large sliced pan wrappers were opened and boiled egg sandwiches were passed around followed by banana sandwiches, a bit squashed perhaps, but it did not affect the taste in the slightest. This was the tastiest food a child could eat.
The crunch of the sand in the banana sandwich, even if you managed not to drop it on the sand was a minimal disadvantage that could be instantly overcome by a gulp of strong tea and the salty taste on everything after the swim.
The long walk to reach the spot is totally forgotten only the joy of arrival and the pleasureof the picnic remains.
Mary Doran
