ROME LETTER: We, that is to say your correspondent plus canine members of the family, had barely stepped outside the ancestral home for a morning constitutional on Monday when we were halted in our dog-walking tracks by two passing cars, writes Paddy Agnew.
Had one not already known it, the occupants' question would have reminded us that Monday was indeed "Pasquetta" or Easter Monday.
"Where can we find a field or a park or somewhere nice to sit down and have our picnic?" asked the driver.
You see, while Easter Monday might mean Fairyhouse races for some or a football match for others, in Italy it traditionally means an excuse to go on the first "scampagnata" (outing to the countryside) of the season. Thus, notwithstanding inclement conditions up and down the peninsula, millions of city dwellers set out last Monday, determined to celebrate a traditional Pasquetta picnic.
I remember my bemusement on my first Easter Monday in Italy when travelling out of Rome (trying to behave like a Roman) it seemed that every spare bit of green grass within walking distance of asphalt had already been sequestered by an extended and extending family, complete with well-stocked picnic table and chairs.
One's own seemingly ample hamper of cold meats, cheeses, bread and red wine looked paltry when compared with the regal spreads being enthusiastically tucked into on all sides. For many families, then and now, the Pasquetta "picnic" was in fact a traditional three- or four-course lunch, generously served from an imposing battery of kitchen containers.
In theory, the Pasquetta picnic a la romana is meant to comprise goat's cheese, beans, bread and white wine and little else other than the odd chocolate egg. In practice, it has become exquisitely elaborate, while many now cheat by booking a restaurant table in preference to the joys of a damp derrière in the grass. (For example, most restaurants in the Ostia, Fiumincino, Fregene coastal areas, close to Rome, were booked out for Easter Monday, weeks ago.)
Lest you think I am exaggerating about the quality of fare, here is a description of a Pasquetta picnic at Albano d'Ivrea, near Turin, one casually picked out on an Internet search. International voluntary worker association CISV offered a "solidarity" picnic that included barbecued sausages and pork chops, accompanied by a "pot-pourri" of chicken, radish and honey, a "fantasy" of vegetables, a fresh herb fry, grilled aubergine slices, fried red peppers, three different fresh salads and a variety of sweets.
All of that, liberally washed down with local red or white, was available for just €20 for an adult, €10 for children. What is more, it was all in a good cause since the money raised will go towards the construction of an aqueduct in Burundi.
Even in these globalised times, the Pasquetta tradition holds good. Probably it has much to do with the extent to which Italians love the comforting conformity of annual rituals. Perhaps, too, especially in a year like this when Easter comes late, there is a pagan urge to celebrate the arrival of spring.
This year's Pasquetta came as the countryside was in full, steam-ahead bursting growth, with everything from cherry and almond blossoms to wisteria and ginestra (broom) flowers leaping from hedges at you. Indeed, among the litany of traditional Pasquetta advice offered by media sources - allow for traffic jams, book restaurant tables early etc - there is the recommendation that the truly prepared family travel with a small first aid kit, lest there are problems caused by different pollens in the springtime air.
That same air seems to have a galvanising effect, too, on homo sapiens (or particularly the female of the species) who see Pasquetta as the moment for the first trip to the beach, not to swim of course, but to work on the old suntan. Getting a decent tan is a serious matter in these parts and the sooner you start on it, the better.
Which explains why the beaches of the Lazio coastline were doing good trade last weekend, with the help of cane windbreaks that mitigate blustery conditions.
Mind you, if they were to try sticking up such a windbreak at White Park Bay on the Antrim coastline, the whole shooting caboodle would be on its way to Scotland before you could say Pasquetta. But that's another story.