There is a particular kind of magic that descends on Britain in May. It is a quiet magic, the sort that creeps in rather than announces itself, a soft unfurling of the country after the long damp hibernation of winter. Other months may have more grandeur – December with its tinselled bluster, August with its determined barbecues – but May is, without question, the most British month of all.
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It is in May that Britain shows its true character: modest, hopeful, faintly chaotic and, above all, delightfully obsessed with the weather.
A Certain Kind of Weather
By rights, May ought to be spring’s grand finale, a riot of sunshine and blossom. And sometimes it is. There are days when the sky goes an impossible shade of blue, when the air smells of cut grass and someone nearby is definitely burning sausages on a barbecue they have insisted on using too early in the season.
But just as often, May offers something entirely different: a week of mizzle so fine it frizzes your hair but never quite justifies an umbrella, followed by a sudden hot snap that has everyone in the office fanning themselves with a copy of the Metro and muttering that they really must get the paddling pool out.
You learn quickly not to trust May. You carry a mac, sunglasses and an emergency pair of flip-flops and you develop an instinct for locating the nearest pub with a beer garden and some form of shelter. It is character building, apparently.
The Joy of Bank Holidays
Ah, the May Bank Holidays. Nothing else in the calendar better captures the British genius for optimism in the face of meteorological betrayal.
There is Early May Bank Holiday, a charming excuse to skive off work and tackle such essential projects as ‘tidying the garden’ (by which one means buying a disappointing tray of geraniums at B&Q) and ‘doing a bit of DIY’ (which will, inevitably, require three emergency trips to Screwfix).
Then, at the end of the month, comes Spring Bank Holiday, which acts as a dress rehearsal for summer. You will see people sunbathing in parks wearing far too few clothes for the ambient temperature, gamely scoffing slightly undercooked burgers and complaining about the pollen count.
It is all rather marvellous.
Bluebells and Cricket Bats
If you were in any doubt that May is Britain’s month, simply take a walk in the woods. You will find yourself ankle-deep in bluebells, those elegant, nodding little heralds of late spring. The best carpets of bluebells look almost unreal, as if someone has sneaked in overnight and given the forest a light dusting of violet paint.
Meanwhile, on the village greens and scrappy sports fields of the nation, cricket quietly awakens. At first glance, cricket can seem utterly baffling to the uninitiated: men and women in suspiciously white trousers standing about for hours, occasionally running or shouting for reasons that are not immediately obvious.
Yet, spend an afternoon watching a local match and you begin to understand. It is not really about the cricket at all. It is about the ritual: the flap of the scorecard in the breeze, the crack of leather on willow, the soft applause that follows even the most unremarkable of singles. It is about tea served in chipped mugs, sandwiches that have been ever so slightly squashed in the car and the blissful sense of nothing very much happening at all.
Fêtes, Festivals and Other Glorious Oddities
May also marks the beginning of fête season, when Britain throws on a slightly wrinkled linen jacket and flings open the gates of every village hall, school playground and National Trust property in the land.
You have not truly lived until you have attempted to pin the tail on a slightly terrifying papier-mâché donkey while balancing a cup of warm squash and a slice of Victoria sponge on a paper plate.
The local fête is where Britain’s true eccentricity comes into bloom. There will be a dog show judged by someone important-looking in a mayoral chain, a tombola full of suspiciously dusty wine bottles and at least one enthusiastic group of Morris dancers jingling their way across the lawn.
And if you are very lucky, there will be a raffle – a word that still sends a tiny thrill down my spine, despite the fact that the main prize will almost certainly be a voucher for a restaurant 18 miles away that no longer exists.
A Month of Asparagus and Hope
It would be remiss to speak of May without mentioning asparagus season. Proper English asparagus – fat, juicy spears that snap like a good piece of celery – is one of the great underrated joys of British life.
The arrival of the first bundles at farm shops and greengrocers is a small, reliable happiness. It is a reminder that, for all the grey skies and drizzle, something green and good always grows here.
You boil it briefly, drown it in butter or perhaps dip it into a soft-boiled egg and for a moment all is well with the world.
A Soft, Sweet Season
May in Britain is not showy. It does not hit you over the head with sun-drenched beaches or dramatic landscapes (though, should you seek them, they are quietly waiting). Instead, May is a month of small, perfect things: a hawthorn hedge foaming with blossom, the smell of rain on warm pavements, the low hum of bees finding their way back to work.
It is a month when the country feels like it is holding its breath, teetering on the edge of summer but not quite ready to leap.
There is a loveliness to that hesitation. It reminds me rather fondly of the British themselves: polite, unhurried, always prepared for rain but secretly yearning for sun.
It is no wonder that even those of us who came to Britain from elsewhere, who learnt to love marmalade and Marmite and muttering about the state of the trains, find ourselves particularly tender towards May. It is Britain at its most unmistakable, its most itself.
And frankly I would not change a thing.
