You think Britain’s having a Bank Holiday heatwave…
I’ve no idea where people get this notion that we are obsessed by the weather
We have just got back from the Caribbean (don’t weep for me), where we were staying in a resort that was made up almost entirely of Americans. “Vacationing” Americans are very friendly, effusive even, not at all like the ones I have met in, say, New York, who walk quickly with their heads down, making me feel quite at home. No: these Americans really wanted to chat. We’d stand behind them in the queue at the breakfast buffet, minding our own business, and all they wanted to do was talk to us about (a) the Royal family, and (b) how excited we must be to see the sun.
When the first topic was mentioned, my husband would raise his eyes to the heavens and brace himself in readiness for my spiel about the time I met Prince Harry. When it came to the second topic, we would both raise our eyes skyward, silently wondering why so many people around the globe believe that us Britons exist on a grey, windswept island, living under rocks, waiting for that bright yellow orb of fire to appear in the sky for its allotted annual five minutes, so that we can all indulge our favourite national pastime of worshipping the sun.
Then we stepped off the plane at Gatwick to find people in raptures because the mercury had risen above 50F (10C), and we realised that the reason we are viewed this way is that this is exactly the way we are: pale, pasty, very easily excited by the weather.
Much has been made of this Easter “heatwave”, coming 70 years after the last one, when Britain “boiled” in 84F (29C) heat. Reading reports of the 1949 episode, I am comforted by the fact that while much has
changed – social media, iphones, 24-hour news – nothing has really changed at all. Back then, the warmer weather had people heading in droves to the beaches, just as it does now, despite the water still being so cold that even jellyfish turn their tendrils up at it. The sun sent Britons into a feverish state even then, with the Duke of Marlborough temporarily closing Blenheim Palace due to people climbing fences into private areas of the grounds and picking flowers. Naughty!
Today, the magic combination of warm weather and a four-day holiday weekend provides a different kind of loutish behaviour, with young folk consuming their body weight in booze and throwing up on pavements of towns and cities across the country.
Returning from a place where people thought us mad for venturing into the Caribbean Sea when the sun disappeared briefly behind a cloud (“but the water is so cold!”), I am reminded that a heatwave is all relative, really.
Take, for example, a recent trip to Uganda, where I was advised to take warm clothing for the evenings when, I was told, “it can get very cold”. I dutifully packed a selection of jumpers and warm coats, only to discover that by cold they meant a stiflingly hot 79F (26C).
But back to the West Indies, where I spent most of my time discussing the best SPFS with the only other British couple we met. Patrick and Alice, from mid-devon, preferred factor 50 for the face, dropping down to factor 30 for the rest of the body. “Punchy!” I proclaimed at this bold, brave move, while smothering myself in the kind of sunblock that, if used daily, would probably give me rickets.
The Americans occasionally applied tanning oil to their bronzed bodies. And, still, I was the one to burn.
Of course, I wouldn’t have it any other way. The very British approach to weather suits me and my translucent skin down to the icy ground. Indeed, on the first night of our holiday, sitting down for dinner, I was surprised to see a group of Americans dining with John Cleese, and thought back to that episode of Fawlty Towers where Basil welcomes some Californians to the hotel, only for them to start complaining about how cold it is.
“My wife finds it too gloomy,” says Basil, “but I find it rather bracing.”
“What do you find bracing, Basil?” replies Sybil. “The damp, the drizzle, the fog?”
“Well, it’s not always like this,” he replies. “It changes.”
“My husband’s like the climate,” says Sybil. “He changes. This morning he went on for two hours about the bloody weather.”
I’ve no idea where the Americans get this notion of us as weather-obsessed. Nope. No idea at all.