It's a heatwave.

 It's a heatwave.

Yes folks it's a heatwave and that's official. It is, undoubtedly gorgeous out there, a stunning profusion of loveliness, beauty, art, a throwback to those luscious, heavily perfumed days of high summer, where the yellow and red rose beds are now blooming, blossoming, strikingly attractive, England enjoying the kind of heat and sunshine that we normally associate with the Mediterranean. But then there are those for whom this exceptionally warm spell may find barely tolerable. It's too sticky and humid, they cry plaintively.

It's far too hot and, besides, we do need rain because the farmers of Britain will be begging for the wet stuff. The rain is vitally important for the healthy growth of their lands and the fertile crops that proliferate with some regularity in the more moderate temperatures of an English summer. But we woke up this morning and once again there was a glorious and royal grandeur about the day, radiant rays of warm sunshine beaming down on suburbia, the urban landscape, town, city, garden, park and fields of gold. 

It is hard to find a happy medium because in some ways this was, essentially, the summer we must have been privately wishing for and then pondered again since, in Britain, none of us know what our preferred climate would be. By May and early June, we had the first indications of a good summer, full of happy vibes, warmth and sunshine. But then the dark clouds gathered and we grumbled albeit briefly because we knew that once the winds began to strengthen and the rain showers increased fairly rapidly, we knew we were in trouble. This summer though, didn't quite conform to that traditional pattern. 

So by the end of June and the beginning of July, Wimbledon tennis had come and gone and we declared a dry, pleasant fortnight at Wimbledon. There were no real disturbances and rain interruptions with every hope that once the sun poked its head over the horizon in the morning over SW19, there were optimistic weather forecasts just around the corner. It was time for the sun to put its hat and relax in the languorous, relaxing heat. It shimmered across Centre Court and Courts One and Two almost constantly and was therefore accepted as quite the hottest fortnight of tennis ever experienced. 

Now we took to our seaside beaches and esplanades and covered every acre of yellow sand with hundreds of sun umbrellas, those quaint looking parasols that keep us in welcome shade if the sun does prove too much for some. Here in Britain, we dig out our industrial fans in our stuffy offices, gazing fondly at the cloudless, flawless blue sky and wondering if perhaps we were imagining it. And yet it is here and it just feels that, in early August, as if the climate change advocates were absolutely right. Yes, they say quite categorically, we knew that our summers were definitely warming up with a delightful consistency. 

A couple of weeks ago we were shocked when the temperatures plummeted by several degrees and although never cold or freezing, things had cooled down quite noticeably. But then it occurred to us that maybe we needed a break from the sweltering sun, a chance to put our weather into some kind of sober perspective. We could never challenge Spain, Italy and Greece for wall to wall sunshine because in the Med, they turn on the central heating system at the beginning of May and never turn it off. 

So here we are slowly wending our way towards the end of high summer and the last crack of red ball against willow cricket bat can be heard faintly on some peaceful village green where the gulls are now making steady progress away from the English countryside. They remind you of summer's final grace notes, the final, delicious chords of England's orchestral flourish. 

There is a timeless and joyous feel about those final weeks of summer, a wonderfully gratifying sensation about a season that promised so much and then delivered accordingly. In the cornfields and lush meadows of Middle England, they'll be taking their combine harvesters out for one last journey into a world of gently waving productivity. The strawberries have always been at their sweetest and those salads simply irresistible. 

But we'll look back on the summer of 2025 as a hearty and wholesome one, impressively warm and for those who ventured onto Hampstead Heath for the first time, it just felt very satisfying. We were hoping to read our football poetry on some sun kissed field in the middle of nowhere and we almost got there. And yet, we didn't care in hindsight because the day itself was warm and just blissfully perfect. We might have got lost in the labyrinth of winding pathways and deep forests that you seemed to get lost in temporarily but didn't care. You knew you'd emerge from the canopy of tree branches and thick bushlands and then back home, not quite the destination you were hoping to reach. But never mind, hey. Life is indeed beautiful.