When I was growing up, Easter was a time for being with family (when they weren't serving in the shop), wearing a new outfit on Easter Sunday (there was always a hat included), enjoying traditional food, collecting egg shaped treats to display on top of the piano (I hadn't yet developed a taste for chocolate) and finally, thanks to half day closing, an afternoon's drive to somewhere not too far away on Easter Monday.
These days we still do pretty much the same kind of stuff. Whilst there was no new outfit for me, in another part of the country the littlest was so attached to his new titfer, he was puzzled at the suggestion that he remove it at bedtime.
Our long weekend started with sticky hot cross buns for breakfast on Good Friday, followed by a trip to the beach, dinner in a Turkish restaurant, an Easter Sunday afternoon tea at home (which provided an opportunity to make biscuits using a new rolling pin) and after which a certain vegan glutton was chomping on Rennies like nobody's business and sleeping sitting up, finishing today with a couple of hours blowing away the cobwebs and cooing over the lambs (oh, teeny tiny Tink) at the somewhat incongruously situated (it's surrounded by industry) local RSPB nature reserve.
I love Easter, me.