Dorothy Wordsworth, at Dove Cottage in Grasmere, writes in her journal on 26th July 1800:
“Still hotter. I sat with William in the orchard all the morning and made my shoes. In the afternoon, from excessive heat, I was ill with a headache and toothache and went to bed—I was refreshed with washing myself after I got up, was too hot to walk till near dark.”
On 16th July 1818, Reverend Benjamin Newton notes in his diary:
“The thermometer in the sun at 9am 118. Heard that the heat this day... at Ripon Market was so great that three butchers broiled their steaks for dinner on their cleavers in the sun without fire.”
In July 1873, Reverend Francis Kilvert, in Langley Burrell in Wiltshire, notes:
“Today the heat was excessive and as I sat reading under the lime I pitied the poor haymakers toiling on the burning Common where it seemed to be raining fire.”
Virginia Woolf, in Sussex, writes in her diary on 31st August 1928:
“This is the last day of August and like almost all of them of extraordinary beauty. Each day is fine enough and hot enough for sitting out; but also full of wandering clouds; and that fading and rising of light which so enraptures me in the downs; which I am always comparing to the light beneath an alabaster bowl.”
On 24th August 1939, memoirist Joan Wyndham, then aged 17 and staying at Clouds House in Wiltshire, writes in her journal:
“A blazing hot day just right for the treasure hunt. I was winning—I knew the last clue must mean the sundial in the rose garden. Suddenly I saw Granny almost running across the lawn, a letter in her hand, and while I was distracted Daddy pounced upon the prize. He’s such a cheat. The letter was from Mummy, saying I must go back to London right away—it looks as if war is inevitable.
“I read it out and no one seemed to know what to say. Daddy opened his prize, a box of chocolates, and handed it round. I chewed a caramel slowly, feeling the sun on my face and smelling the roses. I thought ‘What a bore!’”
Evelyn Waugh, at Piers Court in Gloucestershire, writes in his journal on 12th July 1955:
“High summer continues. I shall not go to London until it breaks. This is a pleasant house in the heat. For the first time since I planted it, the honeysuckle outside my bedroom window scents my room at night. I don’t sleep naturally. I have tried everything—exercise, cold baths, fasting, feasting, solitude, society. Always I have to take paraldehyde and sodium amytal. My life is really too empty for a diarist. The morning post, the newspaper, the crossword, gin.”
Bloomsbury Group member Frances Partridge writes in her diary, 24th July 1959:
“London in the heat—what an unbuttoning! What a Bacchanalian rout crowds the pavements, wearing brilliant beach shirts, bare legs, sandals, crinolines, jeans. Normally many people wear their clothes rather for the unwritten things they say than because they suit them: whether it is their background (families in the Highlands, social and political values) or to declare their readiness for sex and adventure. But when it’s as hot as now they strip off this print, these flags they’ve been waving, with one idea alone—to be cool and comfortable.”
On 13th May 1961, David Bruce, the American Ambassador to Britain, notes in his diary:
“London has been subjected for days to what is termed here a ‘heat wave.’ This means the temperature in the sun reaches about 75 degrees. The parks are filled with half naked bodies taking advantage of this unusual boon.”
Comedian Kenneth Williams writes in his journal, 25th June 1976:
“The boiling sun is relentless, the sort of weather which one loves on a holiday and loathes in London. I feel actually angry as I look at it and know the damage it’s doing to people, to business and to spirits… one is sweating before the day begins & I have one sheet over me on the bed & it’s still uncomfortable. To the theatre through sweltering streets… everyone standing outside pubs with beer in their hands… In Titchfield Street they shouted, ‘Don’t go in tonight, Kenny! There’ll be no bugger there!” and I smiled sickly. In the event, the auditorium had about 200 in it, and they were very kind and indulgent.”
On 3rd July 2015, Charles Moore observes in his Spectator diary:
“I find it almost frightening to be stuck in London in a heatwave. It is not just the bad air. It is also the sense that this is something that does not suit the British. White northern people have never discovered an elegant means of wearing little in public. We look dreadful and behave as if this is an occasion for having fun, although we secretly know that it is just something unpleasant to be got through... All cultures are precarious. That of London works only between 0 and 21 degrees centigrade.”
“Still hotter. I sat with William in the orchard all the morning and made my shoes. In the afternoon, from excessive heat, I was ill with a headache and toothache and went to bed—I was refreshed with washing myself after I got up, was too hot to walk till near dark.”
On 16th July 1818, Reverend Benjamin Newton notes in his diary:
“The thermometer in the sun at 9am 118. Heard that the heat this day... at Ripon Market was so great that three butchers broiled their steaks for dinner on their cleavers in the sun without fire.”
In July 1873, Reverend Francis Kilvert, in Langley Burrell in Wiltshire, notes:
“Today the heat was excessive and as I sat reading under the lime I pitied the poor haymakers toiling on the burning Common where it seemed to be raining fire.”
Virginia Woolf, in Sussex, writes in her diary on 31st August 1928:
“This is the last day of August and like almost all of them of extraordinary beauty. Each day is fine enough and hot enough for sitting out; but also full of wandering clouds; and that fading and rising of light which so enraptures me in the downs; which I am always comparing to the light beneath an alabaster bowl.”
On 24th August 1939, memoirist Joan Wyndham, then aged 17 and staying at Clouds House in Wiltshire, writes in her journal:
“A blazing hot day just right for the treasure hunt. I was winning—I knew the last clue must mean the sundial in the rose garden. Suddenly I saw Granny almost running across the lawn, a letter in her hand, and while I was distracted Daddy pounced upon the prize. He’s such a cheat. The letter was from Mummy, saying I must go back to London right away—it looks as if war is inevitable.
“I read it out and no one seemed to know what to say. Daddy opened his prize, a box of chocolates, and handed it round. I chewed a caramel slowly, feeling the sun on my face and smelling the roses. I thought ‘What a bore!’”
Evelyn Waugh, at Piers Court in Gloucestershire, writes in his journal on 12th July 1955:
“High summer continues. I shall not go to London until it breaks. This is a pleasant house in the heat. For the first time since I planted it, the honeysuckle outside my bedroom window scents my room at night. I don’t sleep naturally. I have tried everything—exercise, cold baths, fasting, feasting, solitude, society. Always I have to take paraldehyde and sodium amytal. My life is really too empty for a diarist. The morning post, the newspaper, the crossword, gin.”
Bloomsbury Group member Frances Partridge writes in her diary, 24th July 1959:
“London in the heat—what an unbuttoning! What a Bacchanalian rout crowds the pavements, wearing brilliant beach shirts, bare legs, sandals, crinolines, jeans. Normally many people wear their clothes rather for the unwritten things they say than because they suit them: whether it is their background (families in the Highlands, social and political values) or to declare their readiness for sex and adventure. But when it’s as hot as now they strip off this print, these flags they’ve been waving, with one idea alone—to be cool and comfortable.”
On 13th May 1961, David Bruce, the American Ambassador to Britain, notes in his diary:
“London has been subjected for days to what is termed here a ‘heat wave.’ This means the temperature in the sun reaches about 75 degrees. The parks are filled with half naked bodies taking advantage of this unusual boon.”
Comedian Kenneth Williams writes in his journal, 25th June 1976:
“The boiling sun is relentless, the sort of weather which one loves on a holiday and loathes in London. I feel actually angry as I look at it and know the damage it’s doing to people, to business and to spirits… one is sweating before the day begins & I have one sheet over me on the bed & it’s still uncomfortable. To the theatre through sweltering streets… everyone standing outside pubs with beer in their hands… In Titchfield Street they shouted, ‘Don’t go in tonight, Kenny! There’ll be no bugger there!” and I smiled sickly. In the event, the auditorium had about 200 in it, and they were very kind and indulgent.”
On 3rd July 2015, Charles Moore observes in his Spectator diary:
“I find it almost frightening to be stuck in London in a heatwave. It is not just the bad air. It is also the sense that this is something that does not suit the British. White northern people have never discovered an elegant means of wearing little in public. We look dreadful and behave as if this is an occasion for having fun, although we secretly know that it is just something unpleasant to be got through... All cultures are precarious. That of London works only between 0 and 21 degrees centigrade.”
