A fine picnic

A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread—and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness— O, Wilderness were Paradise enow!*

The ‘Astronomer-Poet of Persia’ Omar Khayyam eulogised the picnic back in the 11th century, although personally I’d add a hunk of cheese to his verse for complete perfection.

I love every aspect of a picnic – the planning and making, the location, the eating, and the postprandial contentment.  Picnics are a highlight on my tours, and I often like to spring them upon the group at unexpected moments.  I’ve never been to a country where my local guide doesn’t support the idea of a picnic – no matter how inconvenient the moment or size of the group.  My picnic was the source of much amusement for my local guides in Libya and I’d drive them to distraction with the bossy detail: a dozen eggs would be handed over to be boiled on the morning of the picnic (not before) and the cool box collected from the local office.  Four picnic items always travelled with me to Libya: a tablecloth – this one was white cotton with a faded red border inherited from my grandmother's linen cupboard (she spent a year living in eastern Libya and I often wondered if she picnicked with it herself). My opinel knife, a cracked pepper grinder, and Maldon sea salt made up the other three essentials.

 Day 2 on the Taste of Libya tour and we’d set off to Leptis Magna from Tripoli, the group eagerly anticipating one of the highlights of the tour: ambling around one of the most significant cities of the Carthaginian Empire.  Leptis Magna flourished under the Roman Emperor Septimus Severus in 195AD and todays ruins are remarkable due to the excavations under Italian occupation in the first half of the 20th century.   On route to the site we would stop at the bakery for flatbreads, and the open-air market stalls for fruit and vegetables:  punnets of fresh strawberries and tomatoes, baby cucumbers, pink radishes, juicy oranges, melons, and handfuls of fresh parsley.   Slipping away from the group towards the end of the tour I would drive to the coliseum which lies a short distance east of the city near a carpet of bright red poppies in Springtime.  I knew the exact spot - where a convenient slab of two stones join to form roughly flat table.  The view takes in the Mediterranean on one side and in front of us the majestic coliseum - the scene of countless Gladiatorial battles in its heyday. 

 For Iranians the picnic is a way of life; people picnic everywhere - from parks to pavements, paths to petrol stations.  On one occasion I had my resourceful guide Ashfin borrowing a Persian rug from a carpet shop in Esfahan.  Shouldering it together, we threaded our way down busy streets, across roundabouts and down to the banks of the Zandeyeh river to find a spot amongst the families sitting on the grass.  Space was made for our carpet and my group of twelve and we sprawled out, gazing across to Si-oh Se bridge in the warm din of the evening.  The bright yellow light from each of the thirty-three archways reflected like golden coins onto the dark water and the chatter and laughter of neighbouring picnickers rose to compete with the chorus of frogs in the nearby reeds.  We ate kebabs, soft cheese with herbs, and sangkak bread. A family next to us handed around glasses of cardamom tea from their gently bubbling samovar.  On a solo train journey from Tehran to Mashad, I had to work for my picnic massaging the stockinged feet of an elderly lady in chador sitting opposite me whilst her granddaughter ladled out ghormeh sabzi into bowls beside us.  One of the finest purveyors of picnickers - the late celebrated Bruce Wannell was particularly particular about his picnics in Iran ‘…Insisting I acquire the best glass tea sets for the bus journeys to making sure there was a never-ending supply of Iranian pastries to lift spirits when required.’**  When travelling through northern Iran with Bruce, Barnaby Rogerson noted ‘…A shared delight in the perfect picnic lunch.  It should be late enough in the day for you to be hungry, should be bathed in dappled shade with an uplifting view and should be sourced from local foods acquired during the day’s travel.’ ***

 I’m no picnic perfectionist, but if it involves a connection with the local people, I’m content.  I’m sure the train conductor on the 13:20 Margilan to Tashkent in Uzbekistan last year will never forget our picnic.  He cleared a tiny space in his galley for my preparations, helping to catch slippery olives and slices of cheese before they hit the floor as we rattled through the Ferghana Valley.  There’s a perfect picnic moment in Brideshead Revisited when Sebastien Flyte remarks:  ‘I should like to bury something precious in every place where I’ve been happy.’ I’d like to think I’ve done that with every picnic crumb I’ve dropped.

*Taken from the 1889 edition of Edward Fitzgerald translation Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam ** Extract from Tales of the Life of Bruce Wannell ‘Bruce on Tour’ by Amelia Stewart *** Extract from Tales of the Life of Bruce Wannell ‘Persian Picnics’ by Barnaby Rogerson

Picnic at the coliseum, Leptis Magna Libya

Picnic at Si-o-seh-Pol bridge, Esfahan Iran