The British don’t really do summer. It’s not necessarily that we don’t want to, but temperamentally we are autumnal, northern souls, and the imminent return of autumn is as welcoming as a comfortable old coat. For it means that we can finally ditch the pretence that we enjoy summer and its enforced, ersatz fun in the sun for another year.
Our collective folk memory of childhood summers unhelpfully filters out the crushing boredom of six weeks off school and hoodwinks us into thinking that summer is a time of halcyon days, endless blue skies and carefree living. In short, it makes us think that every summer should be like1976.
The truth is somewhat different, of course. For instance, we conveniently forget that the summer of 76 produced both droughts and a record number of wasps that plagued picnics, ruined days at the beach and made walks in the countryside unbearable.
Summer tends to bring out the worst in us. Everybody is angry, tense, uptight. The mere thought of spending more time with the kids is exhausting, and as for a relaxing holiday – forget it. The beaches are rammed and many of us can no longer afford to go abroad anymore.
Once again, we have an idiot journalist who uses “we” when he actually means “he”.
I enjoy summer. The heat does not make me irritable and I long for the mellow warmth that summer brings. So the “everybody is angry” just isn’t true. Trevor Mitchell is angry. But I guess if you were a moron who writes for the Guardian you would be…
As for me, I see autumn lurking in the shadows and dread the cold of winter… Given this, I’ll linger a while in the warmth of the last of the August sunshine…
It is the added daylight that I enjoy. I love getting out on my bike really early in the morning when there is little traffic, and pedaling away while watching the sun come up. I try to keep up the cycle commute as long as I can to avoid getting too out of shape during the winter, but even the modern powerful rechargeable lights can’t take away the misery of cycling in the cold, wet and dark. Especially when the old Saab is standing in the driveway with its cosy interior and climate control. eventually I have to cave in and it’s back to the boring spin bike but at least the gym is warm.
The thing about British summers is that they never really make the grade. They are never quite warm enough and you can never rely on them not to rain on you. Remember the Mediteranian climate that we were promised by the climate change nuts? I still prefer them to winters though. Come to think of it, our winters don’t make the grade either, I much prefer snow to months of rain.
I currently live in a small village in rural Italy, in the Apennine foothills. I’m sitting here typing while three 16″ pedestal fans blast me with air. And I’m still dripping with sweat.
Italians have only recently started to embrace the joys of air conditioning (for long, tedious reasons) and, believe you me, once they’ve tried it, they sure as hell don’t want to go back. Don’t kid yourself that everyone who lives in such countries actually enjoys the heat. Nobody enjoys the swarms of mosquitoes and other insects.
The UK struggles with temperature spikes of 30+ Celsius because they’re so unusual and most buildings — particularly those built by the Victorians — simply weren’t designed for the heat. There are trains trundling around Greater London that still don’t have air-con.
I find air conditioning too cold for comfort.
In my defence, I am the son of a Geordie who used to think nothing of going for a swim in the North Sea. As far as I’m concerned, there’s no such thing as “too cold”!
For me, there’s no such thing as too hot.
Likewise. I abhor winter, and I hate air conditioning.
One of the main reasons I live in Greece is that I can’t stand English winters. Or English (non) summers, come to that. 30° – 35°C is about right for me. I like a fan to keep the air moving, but air-con is awful. Dries up my sinuses and makes me feel like shit. It’s one of the things I hate about flying.
The only time I had bronchitis was when I was in an air-con hotel in Bangkok in the early 70s. It was 40° and humid outside, and 22° and desiccated in the hotel. A couple of days going in and out, and I got really sick. I had to move to a Chinese hotel with overhead fans. But that was ok, it was cheaper anyway! 🙂
But the Thais are air-con mad. If you get on the BTS (the overhead urban railway in Bangkok) these days, it’s absolutely bloody freezing. It’s kind of a relief initially, when you first get on, but if you’re travelling more than one stop, it’s purgatory on wheels. I find myself standing next to the automatic doors so I can get a blast of warm air when they open.
As I sit here tapping away, it’s 28°. I’m just wearing a pair of shorts, my ideal dress code. Cold winters? Nah, I’ll pass…
Clearly the author doesn’t ride a PTW, so can be forgiven for not having the joyous experience of wet leaves, nor black ice on 12″ wheels, nor the effects of road salt on alloy components.
Nor does he smoke, so he’ll have missed out on the delights of firing up a fag in a winter gale and the insulating qualities of plastic chairs.
Is he kidding? This had been the worst cricket season I can remember due to the dire weather. He should be laughing!
I’m with you and he’s wrong, we’ve always managed to bank on good summer days, and he is in a distinct minority.
To Sean, I’m just south of the appenines, and it’s been a hot summer. My view from Italy is that July is a nightmare, hot and stuffy, stressed and at work. AUgust is a delight: days a slight bit shorter, mornings and evenings fresh, some prospect of occasional rain but very seldom too much, and a general holiday mood prevails.
Love it.
My previous apartment had an air-con unit that I had to keep running for around half the year. (The apartment before that was higher up in the mountains and fans sufficed. It was in a tiny valley and had a noticeable microclimate that kept it noticeably cooler than anywhere else around it. Lots of breezes too.)
I suspect I may be the only one here who thinks spending holidays somewhere hot is the very definition of hell on Earth. Still, it would be a tedious world indeed if everyone was the same.
Summer’s OK but it lacks the atmosphere of autumn. Winter’s my favourite, especially the snow.
Spring and Autumn are still my favourite times of the year. As a front line Police officer walking a beat (a near extinct animal these days), the uniform of woollen trousers and tunic made the cold, wet, winters and the hot, sticky, summers purgatory. The thick rubber macs in winter kept you dry, apart from the part of your trousers below the edge of the mac, which soaked up all the rain the mac dispelled. Being rubber, it didn’t retain any warmth but as it also didn’t breathe, caused your body to sweat profusely, so by the end of your shift, you were wet, cold yet sweaty, and stunk to high heaven. Unless the order came down from on high that tunics or ties could be dispensed with, summers were just as bad. Spring and Autumn were usually just right. Just before retirement, stab-proof vests had to be worn which, in the summer meant more sweat soaked shirts. It was bad enough for the blokes but the female officers also had the embarrassment of removing their vests on returning to their air conditioned offices to reveal the outlines of their underwear through their wet, white, shirts. Plus, every one knows what happens when ladies breasts get cold, causing them even more embarrassment. On reflection, perhaps some aspects of summers weren’t too bad after all.