On many a hot and sunny Greek, Spanish, Croatian or Portuguese holiday I have wondered aloud: “Why can it be like this at home?” If we had the weather, obviously meaning the hot and sunny weather, no Brit need every go abroad again. Instead, there would be four or five times as many holidaymakers in Cornwall and Devon, doing their damndest to get burnt to a cinder. But this year, we have had the weather. It’s been fantastic, one of the best summers of my life, yet now I have had enough. For the first time I can remember, I am wishing for the end of summer. How fortunate, then, that the last day of summer, the meteorological one, is next Sunday.
We drove to nearby Thornbury today for a walk around the park. The stream running through it has virtually dried up, the grass is parched and brown, the ground is rock solid. The sun was beating down from a clear blue sky and the temperature maxed out at 27c, 5c less than the maximum in Corfu today and 4c less than Majorca but a larger part of me than ever before felt nostalgic for the good old days when in England it pissed down all day.
Over half a lifetime ago, I did toy with the idea of moving abroad and of course the main reason was for the weather. That was back in the days when the English summer resembled a slightly warmer version of the British winter. The idea never so much got off the drawing board as to never get on it in the first place because there was too much about cold, wet and windy England I would miss. And now, in old age with our children all grown up, at least in terms of years, it is bad enough to not live in the same city as one of them, never mind the same country. Then, I’d miss record shops, book shops, Sainsbury’s, decent quality wine, pubs with actual real ale in them, trains … anything else? Oh yes: my friends. How could I forget my friends? Having lost so many friends this year, as well as a much-loved close relative, I realise that time waits for no woman or man. If I don’t spend time with them now? This could all end in a heartbeat, or lack of one. And anyway, the British summer, and indeed the spring before it, has been magnificent.
I just found myself too hot this afternoon. I just wanted to be much cooler. The countryside around us is still beautiful, not least because of our usual maritime climate, and there is still much to look at but this endless summer – well, it just doesn’t feel right.
When it rains, I expect it will pour and, as I have said recently, before we know it, the reservoirs will be overflowing, the rivers will be bursting their banks and being Mr Inconsistent, I’ll be thumbing my way through the holiday brochures trying to work out where to go next summer. And of course it will probably be somewhere with no record shops, book shops, Sainsbury’s, decent quality wine, pubs with actual real ale in them, trains … anything else? Oh yes: my friends. But it will only be for two weeks and soon I will be back standing on the green, green grass of waterlogged home. Unless of course 2026 gives us a repeat showing of 2025.
British people in hot weather, eh? We love it and then we hate it and then things go back to normal and we hate that even more. Climate change in itself did not cause this long, hot summer. Climate change makes long hot summers, and long cold wet ones, more likely and more extreme. And if, as usual, we have the October storms, you can blame me for wishing away the summer.
