even though the umbrella has become a ubiquitous feature of national life.
It is an ancient and familiar notion, that people can be defined by their habitat. In about AD 7, the Greek historian and geographer Strabo hinted at an association between Britain’s rainy and foggy weather and the locals’ temperament, ‘simple and barbaric — so much so that, on account of their inexperience, some of them although well supplied with milk, make no cheese’. (See ‘C is for Cheese’.)
The suggestion was that the damp, gloomy climate had incubated an uncivilised, backward race.
Strabo was drawing upon accepted wisdom. Four centuries earlier, Hippocrates, the ‘father of medicine’, had drawn powerful links between climate and regional disposition, ideas that he used to explain the dominance of Greek culture. Asian peoples lacked courage, endurance, industry and high spirit, he argued, because the weather was too uniform and balanced. The Europeans on the other hand, stimulated by severe heatwaves, severe winters, droughts and copious rains, responded to such climatic ‘jolts’ with energy and bravery.
In 1733, the Scottish doctor and writer John Arbuthnot attempted to apply the theory to the British Isles. His
The barometer helped inspire an extraordinary period of meteorological record-keeping in Britain, with enthusiasts and academics keeping detailed weather diaries in the belief that, through observation and measurement, science might render the country’s capricious climate explainable and predictable. In the 1660s, members of the newly formed Royal Society encouraged data collection and research: Robert Hooke published a ‘Method for Making a History of the Weather’ and John Locke kept a weather diary for almost forty years.
The contemporary historian Jan Golinski, who studied many meticulous accounts, concluded ‘the compilation of weather diaries can be understood as part of the large-scale enterprise of “civilising nature”.’ It was as though the country wanted to demonstrate that its gentle, moderate climate was indicative of the self-control that made Britain great. By understanding our weather, we might understand ourselves.
Samuel Johnson, however, took a rather more dismissive view of the ‘inspectors of barometers’, whose confidence in their ability to predict the weather was, he thought, akin to believing in bugbears and goblins. ‘The oraculous glasses have deceived their votaries; shower has succeeded shower, though they predicted sunshine and dry skies; and by fatal confidence in these fallacious promises, many coats have lost their gloss and many curls have been moistened to flaccidity.’ Dr Johnson famously mocked this peculiar fixation with daily forecasting, observing that ‘when two Englishmen meet, their first talk is of the weather. They are in haste to tell each other, what each must already know, that it is hot or cold, bright or cloudy, windy or calm.’
However, eighteenth-century science continued to challenge ancient superstition that rain-ruined harvests and drought-shrivelled crops signified divine vengeance or that the activities of the heavens were random, unfathomable phenomena. The daily tapping of barometers marked out a rhythmic determination to explain how mild British weather had sculpted the great British people.
The Scots philosopher David Hume was unconvinced. ‘The only observation, with regard to the difference of men in different climates, on which we can rest any weight, is the vulgar one, that people in the northern regions have a greater inclination to strong liquors, and those in the southern to love and women,’ he wrote. Even this association was doubtful, Hume felt, given the Greeks who ‘seem much addicted to the bottle’.
The unpredictability and variety of the British weather, however, has always played powerfully upon this nation’s sense of itself. Each morning, pulling back the curtains, the population prepares itself for what may be outside. A clear blue sky might lift the spirits; flat grey cloud may prompt correspondingly neutral shrugs; dreary drizzle is likely to be met by sinking hearts. How can one deny that sunshine or showers, convivial warmth or bitter cold, don’t help set the mood and perhaps, over time, the personality of a people? It is a persuasive argument — but does it stack up?
During the last few decades, a significant amount of research has been conducted into the relationship between mood and weather, with scientists looking for a link between atmospheric condition and personal disposition. Do high temperatures make people passionate? Does precipitation dampen enthusiasm? Are people happier in summer than in winter?
Analysis in the 1970s and 80s variously suggested that high pressure, high temperature and low humidity were associated with positive emotions — basically, nice weather seemed to put people in a good mood. More recent research, however, has challenged this assertion with a number of studies suggesting the link is either very small or non-existent. One paper published in 2008 concluded that ‘the idea that pleasant weather increases people’s positive mood in general is not supported by the findings of this study’.
The author of that research, Jaap Denissen, accepted that his conclusions apparently contradicted common sense, but insisted that there could be a number of factors to explain the discrepancy between empirical results and widely held beliefs. For example, it may be that historical associations between good weather and having enough food and shelter have been culturally transmitted down the ages. He also suggested that the discrepancy might be down to the impact of a small number of extreme cases in which people’s mental health is genuinely affected by the weather.
Seasonal Affective Disorder, or SAD, was first described and named by the South African psychiatrist Norman Rosenthal in 1984, who noticed that after his move from sub-tropical Johannesburg to seasonal New York he was less energetic and productive in the winter months. Often described as ‘winter blues’, Rosenthal found the condition was more prevalent in northern latitudes: virtually no one in sunny Florida was diagnosed with the condition, while almost one in ten of the population further north in New Hampshire was said to suffer from SAD.
In Britain, the disorder is thought to affect around 7 per cent of people. Most of them suffer during the winter months, but it applies to people who become depressed at the change of any season. The
Science is still trying to make sense of what is going on. The link between cold, dark climates and depression seems so plausible and yet Icelanders exhibit remarkably low levels of SAD. Some suggest this might be down to a genetic factor (Canadians of Icelandic origin also appear to have lower levels of SAD), while others think they may be protected by eating lots of fish, a diet high in Vitamin D.
The British public, it seems, remains largely committed to the view that if it lived in a warm, sunny environment instead of enduring waves of Atlantic cloud and rain, everyone would be a lot happier. For proof, people confidently assert that suicide rates are higher in countries straddling the Arctic Circle. But are they?
Proportionately, far more people kill themselves in the warmth of South Korea than in the chill of Scandinavia. Finland, which has the highest suicide rate of the Nordic nations, has a similar level to France and Belgium. The Swedes have long tried to explode the myth that their climate makes them a depressive bunch, blaming a speech by President Eisenhower in 1960 for an association between European socialism and suicide. World Health Organization data suggest Sweden’s rate is roughly in line with South Africa, Hong Kong and New Zealand.
The idea that a warm, sunny climate makes us happier doesn’t hold up. The countries with the highest levels of reported well-being, the places where people themselves say their lives are great, tend to be those experiencing long, cold winters: Canada, Sweden, Finland and Norway regularly feature in the top positions. If climate is having an effect, it is more than offset by other factors.
And yet. And yet. And yet. I
Perhaps the explanation is hidden in a newspaper article from New Delhi in India a couple of years ago. ‘A sudden spell of drizzle in some parts of the national capital lifted the mood of its residents, as many people took
