By DAISY SAMPSON daisy.sampson@algarveresident.com
Shrieks of laughter, the sound of feet running through the corridors, banging doors and sweet wrappers all over the floor, you could be mistaken for thinking that this is some sort of children’s party but no, this is our family Easter egg hunt and only one of the assembled crowd is under 18.
Every year it is the same: we all dress up in our special granny clothes (not clothes a grandmother would wear but clothes we wear for our grandmother) and head up to the big house for Easter lunch. The silver is set, the roast is in the oven and the wine is flowing.
Every year, we all protest that we have something else to do, that we are too old for the games, that we are on a diet and don’t want the chocolate and usually at least one of the family is suffering from a monster hangover (you know who you are!), yet within 10 minutes of stepping into the house and being handed a collecting bag, we all regress to six year olds as the hunt begins.
Granny has counted how many eggs have been hidden – well we don’t want a repeat of the year that several were not found until they melted over the furniture – and it is every man for himself!
My sisters and I push through the halls and slip on the parquet floor as we scramble to find the best eggs (I say the truffles are the best but they claim the cream eggs rule). We tear through the house at first then try to be more subtle in our searching, attempting not to draw attention to finds in the distance.
The hunt brings out the sibling rivalry of old as we eye each others bags enviously and barter the eggs. The only child at the hunt has been left standing in a daze as the eggs are snatched from around her and now she is crying because the big ones have taken all the sweeties.
Now, you would think that the older, wiser, fairer members of the family would be stepping in to share out the goodies but no; they too have been fighting for the eggs with as much vigour as the younger members of the family.
Creative
There is no joy to be had as a daughter when you watch your mother race her mother, now in her seventies, to the conservatory to look for the Cadbury’s mini eggs under the wicker chairs. Where is their dignity? Growing old gracefully does not spring to mind as they grapple over a mini Mars Bar.
Of course the proceedings are made worse by the inevitable glass or two of wine that has already been quaffed, and the dangerously energetic levels being felt by everyone, who have consumed almost their own body weight in sugar before the hunt has even begun.
The family Easter egg hunt, as organised by my grandmother, has secretly become one of the favourite family get togethers of the calendar. A perfect combination of chocolate, competition and creative hiding places; after all, who would think to hide a miniature chocolate egg in the hem of a curtain or disguised in a flower arrangement.
This year, Easter will simply not be the same as my grandparents, very selfishly may I add, are on holiday. Why don’t we simply organise the hunt to be held in one of the other houses in the family, you ask? Well, it just wouldn’t be the same, would it? If we had to do the organising then we couldn’t pretend that we are all far too old and grown up to run about like children. After all, we only do it because granny makes us, don’t we?
