Anyone who has spent more than five minutes with me will know that as soon as the weather turns nice, I’m the biggest advocate for British summertime.
I’m not mad.
Britain, without a doubt, has the best summer in the world…when we get the weather.
It’s that final clause that kills it.
But when you think about it, so many things that seem synonymous with summer are quintessentially British, too.
There are other things that aren’t quite so British that we also do equally well.
There’s the ice cream, and garden parties, and the food, village fetes, summer fetes and country fetes, Morris dancing, all the festivals and that back to school feeling, knowing the bank holiday before is going to be just wretched.
Our fields, the colours of the British countryside, the soundscapes – we have so much nature that just yearns to sing and be heard when the sun is shining and we’re unrecognisable as a country when the weather is fine, because we are, all at once, entirely happy. We of course still moan it’s too hot, but we wouldn’t be British if we didn’t complain about the weather – it’s a term of endearment.
But it’s the smell of summer that really gets me. Your olfactory memory is one of the most powerful and summer never smells so good as it does in Britain.
Rapeseed and the smell of freshly cut grass.
BBQs and elderflower and the smell of heat, the insufferable, close weather days before a huge thunder storm and the smell after rain.
The heat never smells the same, abroad.
It never smells the same after it’s rained and you can never smell it’s going to rain like you can in Ashby.
I think I might miss that.