IT'S difficult to pinpoint exactly when we fell in love. Romance is an imprecise science. But I'm fairly certain that the “train picnic” was instrumental in the falling that led to love.

She was frae Giffnock; she hated my suggestion that she was actually a denizen of Thornliebank. The Glasgow southside lassie and the Bishy boy had met in London, economic refugees in search of brighter lights and a bigger city.

It was a few weeks after we met and I was heading from London to Edinburgh while she was popping up the road for the summer. It seemed daft that we spend four and a half hours heading to cities just 40 miles apart so I opted to share her journey, knowing full well that the wrench of stepping through Glasgow from Central to Queen Street would be painful.

Those were the heady, happy days of early-onset love. Foolish flourishes defined that time, hearts and heads caught up in the reeling reality of romance. Having had the Virgin train buffet car offerings I was acutely aware that love lay not in a malted grain BLT. No. Love lay in the bounteous joy of a train picnic.

Halfway between departure and Watford Junction I unfurled the fun: a red and white checked paper tablecloth adorned with a plethora of picnic classics.

There were sumptuous scotch eggs, sensational sausage rolls, tempting triangular sandwiches (sans crust, bien sur). That was wave one of my attempt to court the southside lass. Wave two was a tsunami of sensation. She happily dipped into the hummus and taramasalata, the mini jars of pickles and chutneys that were as cute as they were piquant.

Then there was the mandatory comedy baguette and a cheeseboard of champions. We grazed and giggled, ate and engaged, picked and played. And as if that were not enough, wave three was all about shock and awe: the sparkling wine was uncorked. Her heart was won. And we hadn't even hit the Lake District ...

There's something desperately romantic about a picnic; it's romantic in both senses. And while the checked tablecloth dining experience is a meal usually eaten al fresco under a shaded tree, that approach severely limits the potential of the picnic.

Over the past few days, we've endured the oven-like oppression of a sun-kissed summer and the timing couldn't have been more picnic perfect since last week was the UK's National Picnic Week – and it ends today.

So until midnight tonight, we all have licence (should licence be required) to perch elegantly under a shady, weeping willow, the alcohol perfectly chilled while a woman wearing a wide brimmed hat and mandatory flowing floral dress wades delicately by the babbling burn.

A wicker basket has splayed forth china plates, cute cutlery and cut-crystal wine goblets.

Then the Temazepam wears aff, and reality kicks in. You're sitting awkwardly on bumpy, stone-studded grass under the only tree that was free, looking at the back of an industrial estate. You watch the last sausage roll doon the hill as you curse yersel for being too middle-class tae bring the Lorne sausage with you.

In the down-to-earth world, National Picnic Day will be celebrated over supermarket-purchased disposable barbecues (a cheap tin foil tray with the merest suggestion of charcoal), which will soon litter the parklands of Scotland having been discarded after fruitless hours of attempting lighting before Dad decides that a fish supper frae Mario’s is a far better idea.

As he storms off tae the car, he will curse picnics and swear never to wear those shorts again and never to have another outdoor meal again. Until next year.

Generally speaking, the only half-decent picnics that occur in the world of film or literature or art are motifs for the calm before the storm, both literal and figurative.

The perfect picnic exists in one of three places:

1. A Merchant Ivory film set in the Victorian age.

2. Your over-active imagination

3. On the train fae Euston tae Glasvegas with the girl frae Giffnock.