There's this moment that happens every year in Britain when the temperature hits like 22 degrees and suddenly everyone loses their absolute minds. I saw it go down just last week actually – was walking through town and it was like watching the entire population experience collective amnesia about what weather actually feels like. Dudes breaking out those cargo shorts that have been hibernating since the last proper hot day (probably sometime in 2019), their legs so pale they could've guided ships to safety. Women in sundresses acting like hypothermia is just part of the vibe. And my personal favorite – that one guy who's apparently immune to temperature changes, sweating bullets in a full wool suit but refusing to take off his jacket because, let's be real, his shirt is probably a disaster zone underneath.
You know what kills me? The classic British compromise outfit – flip flops, shorts, and a hoodie. It's like we're all hedging our bets because deep down, nobody actually trusts this weather to stick around for more than forty-seven minutes.
I get it though, I really do. British summer isn't so much a season as it is a brief tease, like when someone slides into your DMs and then disappears for three weeks. It's the meteorological equivalent of "hey stranger" texts – just when you think something good is happening, boom, it's 15 degrees and raining sideways in July. Again.
My relationship with summer dressing has been… complicated. There was this phase in my early twenties where I basically pretended I lived in San Diego instead of accepting reality. I'm talking full linen shirt situations, unbuttoned to dangerous levels, lightweight everything, canvas sneakers with no socks. Basically dressed like I was about to hop on a yacht in Monaco. Spoiler alert: this did not go well. I'd leave my apartment looking like some Mediterranean prince and come home looking like I'd been attacked by a sprinkler system, the linen clinging to me in ways that were definitely not the look I was going for.
Then I completely overcorrected. Got so burned by the "summer that never was" (2016 was genuinely traumatic, weather-wise) that I started dressing for autumn in June. Yeah, I was prepared for the inevitable weather apocalypse, but I also spent the three actually hot days we got looking like I was having some kind of personal climate emergency, sweating through layers that could've handled a hiking trip in Scotland.
Now I've figured out what I call the "British summer sweet spot." It's all about pieces that can handle multiple personality disorders from our weather system, and always – always – having an escape plan. Also keeping a rain jacket stashed everywhere. My car, my office, probably should get one surgically implanted at this point.
The secret weapon in my summer arsenal? Overshirts. Not quite jackets, definitely more than regular shirts – they're perfect for our "is this summer or just slightly warmer winter" situation. I've got this navy linen-cotton blend one from Universal Works that's basically seen me through every weather crisis for the past three years. Sun comes out? Throw it over a tee and you're golden. Clouds roll in like they're personally offended by your optimism? Button it up and suddenly you've got coverage without looking like you fundamentally misunderstood the assignment.
But trousers, man… that's where things get really psychological. Wearing shorts in Britain is basically making a statement about your faith in the universe. I can't count how many times I've committed to bare legs only to end up in a beer garden during some surprise weather event, my skin turning shades of blue that would make a Avatar jealous. The solution I've landed on is lightweight chinos or drawstring pants in quick-dry fabrics. Albam makes these incredible garment-dyed ones that work rolled up when it's actually warm but don't look completely ridiculous rolled down when the temperature inevitably drops twenty degrees in the span of a lunch break.
Shoes though – that's the real challenge. Summer footwear needs to work with shorts and trousers, survive unexpected downpours, and ideally not create that horrific swamp foot situation when the temperature climbs above "tolerable." I've become slightly obsessed with my Paraboot Michaels – chunky enough to not look weird in rain but still work with shorts, rubber sole so you're not precious about puddles. Yeah they're expensive, but I've had them resoled twice and they're still going strong after eight years. When you break down cost-per-wear, they're practically free money.
The truly British approach is basically carrying your entire backup wardrobe with you at all times. I've got this routine now where I pack a tote with a lightweight sweater, packable rain jacket, and sometimes even backup shoes if I'm feeling particularly paranoid about the forecast. Emma thinks this is hilarious – she's from LA where they apparently have something called "consistent weather," so she thinks she knows what she's dealing with. She doesn't. Nobody does. British summer demands preparation levels that would impress doomsday preppers.
The trick is making it not obvious that you're basically planning for meteorological warfare. Nobody wants to look like they're obviously carrying half their closet "just in case the weather has another personality crisis." The best British summer pieces look light and seasonal but secretly perform like you're planning to climb Everest. Uniqlo's merino sweaters are genius for this – they look like simple summer layers but will actually keep you warm when that beer garden turns into a wind tunnel at 8 PM because apparently that's just what happens here.
I've developed what's probably an unhealthy obsession with adaptive clothing. Pants that roll convincingly, shirts with sleeves that work both ways, jackets that pack into themselves like some kind of origami situation. My wardrobe looks like it's constantly preparing for a style emergency, which, given our weather patterns, is exactly what it should be doing.
Colors are another minefield. British summer requires optimism mixed with a healthy dose of realism. Those brilliant whites and pale blues look amazing for our three genuinely sunny days but spend the rest of the season highlighting every raindrop and coffee disaster. I've learned that slightly muted summer colors work better – sage instead of bright green, burnt orange rather than neon, navy instead of royal blue. You get the summer energy without advertising every time the weather decides to be British at you.
Last July we had an actual week – seven consecutive days – of proper summer weather. I threw caution completely out the window and went full summer mode. Linen shirts, tailored shorts, proper summer shoes, the whole fantasy. It felt revolutionary, like I was living in some alternate universe where Britain had actual seasons. I walked around Portland feeling like I was on vacation in my own city, wondering why we all don't dress like this permanently.
Then day eight happened. Temperature dropped fifteen degrees overnight, and there I was sitting in a client meeting dressed for the Riviera while everyone else looked sensibly prepared for reality. This woman across from me was wearing a perfectly reasonable light wool blazer, looking both comfortable and slightly judgmental about my obvious weather optimism. "Didn't you check the forecast?" she asked, in that tone reserved for people who never leave home without consulting multiple weather apps and probably keep emergency sweaters in their cars.
Which gets to the psychology of British summer dressing – we want it so badly that we're willing to suffer for it. I've sat outside pubs in what can only be described as light mist, insisting "it's beautiful out here" through chattering teeth, because dammit, it's summer and we're going to enjoy it even if it requires minor hypothermia. British summer dressing isn't just about managing our objectively challenging climate; it's about maintaining the collective delusion that we actually have a proper summer at all.
So here's what I've learned from years of weather-related trauma: layers that don't look like layers, fabrics that dry fast, colors that hide rain damage, and always having a Plan B within arm's reach. Most importantly, develop that specifically British skill of adapting both your outfit and your expectations in real-time.
Oh, and spare socks. Always carry spare socks, trust me on this. Nothing ruins your day quite like wet feet because you optimistically went sockless in canvas sneakers and got caught in one of those surprise summer downpours that seem specifically designed to remind us we live on a damp island in the North Atlantic, not some Mediterranean paradise, no matter what last Tuesday's weather might have temporarily suggested.
Keith’s a Portland designer with a soft spot for sneakers and a growing allergy to hype. He writes about streetwear’s creative side, its excesses, and learning to build real personal style beyond the latest drops.
