What would it be, I wonder?
Charry grilled fish and peppers on a deserted Greek shore, beside the remains of the weathered Argonaut?
Apple blossom and bone china in an English garden, with shelves of Keats, Jane Austen, and a few dozen Agatha Christie paperbacks tempting a visit through the open cottage door?
Those margaritas carried in a backpack up a gentle oak-canopied hillside after work?
Black Forest ham and Gouda with a red rind on a sailboat carried by the wind across the bay to Angel Island from the Berkeley Yacht Club a lifetime ago?
Wooly sheep and Daimlers in the countryside at Glyndebourne followed by the bubbly delights of Mozart and champagne?
The Rodin Sculpture Garden, candles, Black Lab, children, friends? The year I threw myself a birthday picnic there.
The bread and olives carried up to the stone tiers of the stadium at Delphi past the Temple of Apollo for breakfast before the tourists and the sun?
Any and all of these. The company is all that ever really matters, and the blessing of the Muse of Picnics in her straw brimmed hat.