Picnics have been a part of my life since I can remember – from being packed off for the day as a child with a jam sandwich, a bottle of Dandelion & Burdock and a promise to be home by teatime to dining al-fresco in black tie deep in the Nambian bush beneath the twinkling skies.

Eating outdoors holds a magical allure for me – which I hope to pass onto the Wees. Picnics can be an impromptu decision to take a flask of coffee, some home-made flapjack and just sit by the river watching the ripples and eddies (and keeping an eye out for Mabel the crocodile), or it can be a planned long-anticipated afternoon of decadence with smoked salmon sandwiches, strawberries and Champagne watching an outdoor play or opera.

The joy for me is in the place and the company – and the irreverence. There are no rules (at my picnics, anyway) of the order in which food should be eaten. The Wees are free to get up, run, paddle, and return for another nibble as they wish. Picnics can be eaten anywhere: I’ve sat on a low wall in Mayfair with my aunt eating a sandwich, a city centre bench eating hot chestnuts, underneath the shade of a tree at the foot of a massive sand dune; public parks galore – but best of all are the secret places discovered by us.

The view while we laze, play and eat...

Weather provides no restraint: flasks of Bovril, that long-forgotten staple of my childhood; baked beans with slices of sausage (or whole sausages wrapped in foil), chunky soup with crusty bread… a picnic in the snow can be as memorable as any balmy sunny day.

Trekking in the foothills

Food does not have to be prepared at home: think of blisteringly hot fish and chips on sea wall with a biting wind, or crab claws sucked clean of their sweet juicy flesh: even an emergency dash into the newsagent to buy HulaHoops, bananas and Mr Kipling’s Fancies.

I was prompted to write this post, rather than any of the others scrapping for attention in my head, by a new website www.onlyfootprints.co.uk. Take a look, and follow them on Twitter @only_footprints.