There’s a special kind of desperation that grips Britain when the temperature hits 21 degrees. It happened last Tuesday, actually—I was walking through Manchester and witnessed the full spectrum of summer clothing panic. Blokes in those cargo shorts that haven’t seen daylight since the 2018 heatwave, with legs so pale they were practically luminous. Women in sundresses shivering stubbornly outside bars. The one guy who’s always massively overdressed for the weather, sweating profusely in a full suit but refusing to remove his jacket because his shirt is probably soaked through. And of course, the classic British summer outfit—flip flops, shorts, and a hoodie, because no one trusts the weather enough to commit to a full summer look.
I get it, I really do. British summer is less a season and more a brief, tantalizing glimpse of what other countries consider normal weather. It’s the meteorological equivalent of a celebrity sighting—”Did you feel how warm it was yesterday? No? You missed it? Oh mate, it was glorious for about 45 minutes around lunchtime.” Our summers are like trying to have a meaningful relationship with someone who keeps ghosting you—just when you think it’s going well, suddenly it’s 14 degrees and raining sideways in July.
My own summer wardrobe has evolved through bitter experience. There was the phase in my early twenties when I simply refused to acknowledge the reality of British weather, dressing as if I lived in the Mediterranean—linen shirts unbuttoned to dangerous levels, the lightest possible trousers, espadrilles with no socks. I’d leave the house in full Talented Mr. Ripley attire only to return looking like I’d been caught in a car wash, the linen shirt clinging to my body like a second skin, the espadrilles squelching with each step.
Then there was the overcorrection period—being so traumatized by the “summer of the unexpected deluge” (2016, never forget) that I basically dressed for autumn year-round. Sure, I was prepared for the inevitable weather collapse, but I also spent those precious few genuinely hot days looking like a man experiencing a personal climate crisis, sweating through layers that could have seen me through a Highland winter.
Now I’ve reached what I’d like to think is summer dressing enlightenment. It’s all about strategic layering, fabrics that perform in multiple conditions, and having a few key pieces that can be deployed the moment the sun decides to make an appearance. Also, keeping an emergency mac in the office, car, and possibly surgically attached to my person at all times.
The foundation of any sensible British summer wardrobe has to be the overshirt. Not quite a jacket, not just a shirt, it’s the perfect middle ground for our “is it summer or is it just slightly less cold spring” weather patterns. I’ve got this beautiful navy linen-cotton blend one from Universal Works that’s seen me through three summers now. When the sun’s out, it works open over a t-shirt; when the clouds roll in, button it up and suddenly you’ve got an extra layer without looking like you’ve misread the season entirely.
Trousers are the real battleground though, aren’t they? Shorts represent a level of commitment to summer that feels almost reckless in Britain. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve boldly gone bare-legged only to find myself in a beer garden during an unexpected downpour, my legs turning a shade of blue that would make a Smurf concerned. The answer, I’ve found, is lightweight chinos or drawstring trousers in fabrics that dry quickly. Albam do these brilliant garment-dyed twill trousers that work rolled up when it’s warm but don’t look ridiculous rolled down if the temperature suddenly plummets twenty degrees, which, let’s be honest, it absolutely might.
Footwear is perhaps the biggest challenge. Summer shoes need to work with both shorts and trousers, handle unexpected rain, and ideally not create that horrific sweaty foot situation that can occur when the temperature rises above “mild.” I’ve become evangelical about Paraboot’s Michael shoes—they’re chunky enough to not look ridiculous in the rain but work with shorts, and the rubber sole means you’re not precious about them getting wet. Yes, they’re expensive, but I’ve had mine resoled twice and they’re still going strong eight years later. Cost-per-wear, they’re practically giving them away.
The truly British approach to summer, of course, is to basically have two complete outfits with you at all times. I’ve gotten used to carrying a tote with a lightweight knit, a packable rain jacket, and sometimes even a change of footwear if I’m feeling particularly neurotic about the forecast. My girlfriend finds this hilarious—she’s from Melbourne, where they apparently can experience all four seasons in a day, so she thinks she’s prepared for British weather. She’s not. No one is. British summer demands a level of preparedness that would impress a survivalist.
The real art is in finding clothes that don’t obviously look like you’re hedging your bets against meteorological disaster. No one wants to be obviously carrying half their wardrobe “just in case.” The perfect British summer piece appears lightweight and seasonal but secretly performs like technical gear. Uniqlo’s knitwear is brilliant for this—their fine merino sweaters look like a light summer layer but actually provide shocking amounts of warmth when that beer garden suddenly becomes wind tunnel at 8pm.
I’ve also developed a possibly unhealthy obsession with clothes that adapt. Trousers that can be rolled convincingly, shirts with sleeves that work both rolled and down, jackets that pack into themselves. My wardrobe looks like it’s preparing for some kind of style emergency at all times, which, given our weather, it absolutely is.
Color is another consideration. British summer calls for optimism tempered with realism. Those brilliant whites and pale blues look fantastic on the three genuinely sunny days but spend the rest of the summer season showing every raindrop and coffee splash. I’ve found that slightly muted versions of summer colors—sage rather than mint green, burnt orange rather than bright, navy rather than royal blue—give the summer vibe without highlighting every meteorological insult the British climate throws at you.
There was a week in July last year—a genuine, actual week of proper summer weather—when I threw caution to the wind and fully committed to summer dressing. Linen shirts, tailored shorts, proper summer footwear, the works. It felt revolutionary. I strode around Manchester like I was in Nice, aperitivo in hand, wondering why we all didn’t dress like this all the time. Then on day eight, the temperature dropped fifteen degrees overnight, and I found myself shivering at a work meeting, dressed for a climate that had apparently moved to Spain overnight. The woman opposite me was in a sensible light wool blazer and looked both comfortable and vaguely disapproving of my optimism. “Did you not check the forecast?” she asked, in the tone of someone who never leaves the house without consulting at least three weather apps.
Which brings me to the most important aspect of British summer dressing—the psychology of it. We want so desperately to enjoy the summer, to embrace those brief moments of warmth and sunshine, that we’re willing to suffer for it. I’ve sat outside pubs in what can only be described as light drizzle, insisting “It’s lovely out here!” through chattering teeth, because dammit, it’s summer and we’re going to enjoy it even if it kills us. British summer dressing isn’t just about managing the physical realities of our climate; it’s about maintaining the illusion that we have a proper summer at all.
So here’s my hard-won advice for dressing for the mythical British summer: Layers that don’t look like layers. Clothes that dry quickly. Colors that don’t show rain marks. Always, always have a backup plan within reach. And perhaps most importantly, develop the particular British skill of being able to quickly adapt both your outfit and your expectations at a moment’s notice.
Oh, and socks. Always carry spare socks. Trust me on this one. There’s nothing worse than spending the day with wet feet because you optimistically wore loafers without socks and got caught in one of those sudden summer downpours that seem designed specifically to remind us that we live on a damp island in the North Atlantic, not the Côte d’Azur, no matter what that one glorious Tuesday in June might have briefly suggested.
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