You’ve booked the flights. You’ve got the gelato spots saved. And now you’re standing in front of your wardrobe thinking — okay, but what do I actually wear? July in Italy is glorious and brutal in equal measure. The sun is merciless, the piazzas are packed, and the churches will
The first time I packed for Italy in summer, I brought two pairs of heeled sandals, a full-size hair dryer, and four linen blazers “just in case.” I wheeled my overstuffed suitcase across the cobblestones of Florence in 34-degree heat, sweating through my airport outfit before I’d even made it
Florence in July is, without sugarcoating it, hot. Not “oh how lovely, a warm Mediterranean breeze” hot — I mean stepping-off-the-train-and-immediately-reconsidering-all-your-life-choices hot. The kind of heat that bounces off the stone streets, wraps around you in the Uffizi queue, and makes you stare longingly at every gelato stand like it’s
Let me set the scene. You’re standing at the edge of a lava field in Iceland, the midnight sun hanging stubbornly in the sky at 11pm like it forgot to set, wind whipping off the glacier, and you’re wearing a cotton hoodie you grabbed last-minute at the airport. You are
June in Portugal hits differently. The light is golden and relentless, the tiles shimmer in Lisbon’s steep streets, and the Atlantic breeze off the Algarve coast makes you feel like you’ve finally figured out summer. But here’s the thing — most travellers show up with the wrong clothes and spend
Lisbon in June is one of those travel experiences that sneaks up on you. You arrive expecting something manageable — a warm European city, a bit of sunshine, some hills — and then the city just floors you. The light is golden almost all day, the streets are steep and
There’s a particular kind of embarrassment that hits you somewhere around the Marais — you’re sweating through a synthetic shirt, your trainers are squeaking on the cobblestones, and a Parisian woman glides past in a linen midi dress and block heels, looking like she just stepped off the pages of
There’s a particular kind of optimism that strikes when you’re packing for Italy in spring. You imagine yourself gliding through piazzas in a linen dress, effortlessly stylish, gelato in hand. Then you arrive, it’s 9°C and drizzling in Rome, and you’re standing at the airport carousel praying your overstuffed suitcase
There’s a moment that happens to almost every first-time visitor to Amsterdam in June. You’re standing on a canal bridge somewhere near the Jordaan, the light is golden, the houseboats are draped in geraniums, and then — completely out of nowhere — the sky turns the colour of wet concrete
Let me paint you a picture. It’s June. You’re standing outside Notting Hill tube station, the sun is doing something genuinely beautiful, and you’re wearing a thick wool jumper because someone on a forum said “London is always cold.” Three stops later, you’re sweating through said jumper on the Central
Let me save you from the mistake I made on my first trip to Scotland in June: I packed for summer. Actual summer. Sundresses, sandals, a single thin cardigan “just in case.” I stood on the Isle of Skye in a soaking wet linen dress, shivering in 12°C wind, wondering
June in Spain is spectacular — the kind of golden, sun-drenched spectacular that looks dreamy on Instagram and absolutely brutal if you’ve packed wrong. I know this because I’ve done both: arrived perfectly prepared and arrived in dark jeans with a full-size suitcase thinking I’d “figure it out.” One of
