It is the smell of summer I notice first: warm air and damp soil, the smell of leaf, blossom, and heavy sun. Chlorine swimming pools and summer storms. The sticky sweet of melted ice cream and the slick of sweat on skin. A season of sensations.
As I walk the hill towards the park, my breath shortens and I pause. Everything has an overwhelming green to it: the hedges full, the trees thick. After dry spells, I notice the clay soil cracks underfoot, forming tiny deserts in the middle of the city.
I spend whole days outdoors in summer, sometimes just listening. By mid-summer, the meadows are full: crickets call a constant song, a zzz that slows and hangs in the heat. Most blooms in gardens and flowerbeds are gone by now, but the long grasses heave with meadow flowers: cornflowers and poppies garish above the grass. Flat white umbels of cow parsley bounce at the edges of the paths and fields. Still, I tend towards the flowers overlooked, the weedy ones that grow despite our wishes.
You may find rosebay willowherb in railway sidings, in scrubby parklands, and roadside ditches. It is a seed that sprouts best following disturbances like fire. In parts of London, it grows where rubble from the Blitz was buried. You can recognise it by its person-sized height and whorled leaves that spiral up a green stem tipped with fuschia pink flowers.
Woodlands in summer are tranquil places, no longer humming with the birdsong of spring. Where the trees are large and mature, there is a spaciousness to the trail. Not crowded by smaller plants and seedlings, I can amble slowly beneath the canopy.
Where oaks and pines grow, especially in plantations, you might notice a phenomenon called ‘crown shyness’. As the tops of the trees grow, they leave a little margin of space between them—social distancing to keep one another healthy. Not every tree grows this way, but I like to notice the canopy wherever I am, to notice the ways leaves and branches might or might not entwine.
Beyond the trees I look at the sky: on long days, blue and bobbing with white clouds. But it is the nights that bring magic: in mid-August, when the Perseids pass, I toddle out to spot meteors.
You can look for stars and meteors on any clear night. It’s best to skywatch from a dark location: a high-up window, a quiet garden, or the middle of a park would work in a pinch! The Perseids will flash intermittently and quickly. You might more easily see a glut of satellites, tracking across the sky in a steady, straight line. Some constellations you see only in summer. In the northern hemisphere, on moonless nights, the brightest star in the eastern sky (Vega) is part of the ‘summer triangle’ of stars. To the left of Vega, the next brightest star (Deneb) points the way to the Milky Way, a purplish streak of stars across the night. Phone apps can help you spot and identify the stars.
Some simple ways to notice the summer:
Listen and look for insects throughout summer, whether from home, the city streets, or buzzing meadows. Can you notice moths hovering near lamplight? Iridescent beetles tracing their way across the pavement in early summer?
Can you find a grassy, grown-out meadow? It might be harder in the city, but sometimes you’ll find small patches of meadow and wildflowers on roadsides, by abandoned plots, and ditches where no one mows. Looking closely, how many different heads of grass and flower can you count?
Once the trees are full of leaves, try listening to the sounds of them blowing in the wind. Can you tell the sounds of different trees apart? Trees with leaves on longer stems—like black poplar trees or aspens—will sound like rushing water, while the sound of birches might be more high-pitched and quick. Lime or oak trees may have a more papery sound to them.