EDITOR’S LETTER

With the arrival of August, Editor-in-Chief Farrah Storr reflects on the surprisingly joyous prospect of spending peak summertime in the UK

If you’re British, August isn’t just any old summer month, it’s

the summer month. August is what we dream of when we’re trussed up in two layers of thermals with a hot-water bottle on our thighs. It is the month we escape it all – the house, the country, the day job, the sheer drudgery of it all. Look at any adult’s holiday suitcase and there, writ large in two weeks’ worth of clothing, is our desperate desire to escape who we are. Diaphanous dresses, delicate sandals, prairie-style tops as white and unblemished as fresh snow, plus a necktie that feels a little bit Françoise Hardy, but which will inevitably end up as tea towel in four weeks’ time. August is our Valhalla. The fantasy of who we might be if only we were unencumbered by it all.

But this year it’s different. It’s not different like last year. That was different different. Frenzied different. Desperate different. We partied and sunned ourselves silly, as lockdown loomed. This year it’s quieter. There’s no desperate dash, because there doesn’t appear to be anywhere to dash to. And so there is no escape. Just you and 31 days of August in the British sun. And here’s why that’s a wonderful thing:

“There’s no desperate dash because there doesn’t appear to be anywhere to DASH TO”

NO MORE SUN LOUNGER POSTURING

Lying prone in a swimsuit on a European beach is something one endures rather than enjoys. It’s an art form when undertaken by our continental counterparts, not so much by Brits. In the UK, the swimsuit is put to work. It’s for wild swimming, or it doubles up as a bodysuit when it gets too hot. Swimsuits feel nurturing in a way they never did on a Patmos beach.

THE UNIQUENESS OF BRITISH SENSATIONS

Getting away from it all used to mean feeling blistering heat on your skin, the sound of clanking beer bottles in a tourist bar or the taste of foreign wine on your palate. We’ve forgotten the sights and smells of a British August. But they are this: a breeze as gentle as a pheasant’s feather across your forearm; the cries of a goldfinch caught in the air; the smoky fug of a neighbour’s BBQ. You’ll wonder what you ever did without them.

CAR JOURNEYS

At some point, your plans will require a car journey. There’s something deliciously retro about taking off along the British open road, taking in sights you’ll only ever find on this odd little island. The pleasing sight of a hedgerow bulging with yarrow, a handwritten sign for a village fete, ice cream vans whose stock hasn’t changed since 1983. Even a bumperto-bumper M25 is joyous when the car in front is bursting with inflatables and a cheery child’s face pressed against the window.

THE BRITISH SUN

It’s such a capricious thing in this country that, when it comes, there’s a rush of hysteria followed by general bonhomie. It’s rare, so embrace it.

This is the August issue of ELLE, for those who understand that the best sort of escapes happen on your own front doorstep.