July in London is one of those beautiful, slightly chaotic months where the city genuinely tries to convince you it’s Mediterranean. The parks are packed, the pub gardens are heaving, and for a glorious week or two, people actually eat their lunch outside without a coat. Then, somewhere around Tuesday
Let me be honest with you — I almost got this completely wrong the first time I packed for Spain in July. I loaded up a suitcase full of “just in case” layers, a denim jacket I was convinced I’d need for cool evenings, and two pairs of jeans that
Let me set the scene for you. It’s 11am in July. You’re somewhere between the Gothic Quarter and the Barceloneta seafront, the sun is doing its absolute best to flatten you, and the person next to you — a Barcelona local — looks like they’ve just stepped off a fashion
July in France is many things at once. It is long golden evenings on café terrasses, lavender fields shimmering under a punishing Provençal sun, and cobblestoned Parisian streets that look effortless and feel absolutely brutal on your feet by hour three. It is the kind of month that rewards the
Paris in July is one of those experiences that sounds effortlessly glamorous until you are standing in 34°C heat on the Pont de l’Alma with sweaty feet, a tote bag cutting into your shoulder, and trainers that are slowly destroying your aesthetic. Nobody warns you properly. The blogs all say
Milan in July is not for the faint-hearted — or the badly dressed. The city hits you with a kind of ferocious, glamorous intensity that no amount of Pinterest scrolling quite prepares you for. The heat shimmers off the cobblestones near the Duomo, the air is thick and golden, and
Venice in July is something else entirely. The light hits the canals differently — golden, blinding, almost theatrical. The air is thick with humidity, the crowds are at their absolute peak, and by 10am you’re already wondering why you packed that denim jacket. I’ll be honest with you: July is
Rome in July is many things: magnificent, overwhelming, deeply romantic, and — let me be completely honest with you — brutally, mercilessly hot. I’m talking 35°C in the shade, sun bouncing off ancient travertine like a spotlight, and a kind of dry, radiating heat that climbs up from the ground
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
