Last summer, I made the mistake of RSVPing yes to invitations to three separate garden parties across one weekend. One blustery Sunday night, I found myself regretting each life decision that had somehow convinced me that was a good idea. My jeans were soaked, my dress shoes squelched with each step I took through my flat, and I was suddenly very sympathetic with anyone who thought indoor hobbies were underrated in Britain.
My first party took place at some mock-Tudor estate in the Cotswolds (cashmere clouds softly rolling overhead; me, optimistic in my linen blazer). About midway through drinks and just before they uncovered a trough of some sort of smoked salmon delicacy, the heavens unleashed a torrent of what could only be described as ice rain. Brit storms are dramatic but courteous; they’ll typically announce themselves with ample thunder and a light misting before sweltering humidity claims the rest of your evening.
This deluge came out of nowhere, reduced me and a group of dampened huddling interns to sodden wrecks rummaging for dry socks in our tote bags. The Saturday fete was more of a garden birthday party for a friend’s parent’s suburban London house.
Sunshine, followed by rain, followed by warm mist that felt like taking a shower standing up, followed by a brisk wind that ruined everyone’s hair.
I changed shirts twice and still looked like a wet toddler by the end. Sunday’s affair was much fancier – full-on Oxfordshire, obviously – with added string quartet. To my rapidly diminishing sanity, the weather cooperated all afternoon.
Which now terrifies me more than rainfall. Three British garden parties and I’ve learned more about summer dressing than I had in my entire life prior to moving here. Namely: nothing I thought I knew about staying dry and chic was true.
As a Midwestern boy, I spent most summers traipsing around in sandals and t-shirts. You know what weather is gonna be like; you can get up, plan an outfit, and feel confident it’ll work from beginning to end of an event. Coming to London taught me that I had to think about weather all the damn time, and garden parties are the (literal) worst funambulists for that tightrope act between nature and fabric.
But where I grew up, refusing to let weather ruin your outdoor plans is a triumphant middle finger to meteorologists everywhere. In Britain, garden parties exist in a permanent state of hopeful suspension. We all know it’s going to rain.
We just ignore that fact when accepting the invitations. British people don’t send you clothes suggested for torrential downpour/tiny bomb threats/Firenze levels of heat when they email you garden party invitations. They simply say “dressage,” like that indicates anything about the reality of stitching yourself together when nature has other plans every thirty minutes.
Emma laughs when I stress about the whole weather-vs.-outfit conundrum. She grew up here, went to enough uni garden parties where being drenched was a foregone conclusion to appreciate the very British capacity to shrug and pretend nothing’s wrong. “You can’t battle the elements,” she’ll say when I stare blankly at my wardrobe in the morning, contemplating swear-words that begin with cotton. “Expect something to go wrong and plan accordingly.” Sound advice! That I took way too long to actually implement.
The biggest takeaway? Fabric matters. That gorgeous linen blazer that seemed like the perfect summer brit-proofing?
Looks like you slept in it after 90 minutes outside. Cotton’s better, but it’ll still cling uncomfortably to your body when wet. I’ve found myself reaching more and more for cotton-poly blends I’d looked down on during my university years.
They breathe when it’s warm, dry relatively quickly, and don’t scream “PLEASE LET ME HANG ON TO THIS WATER” when you’re moving around. Wool-silk blend scarf was also Emma’s recommendation after observing my failures. Counterintuitive for summer, I know.
But it actually works: thermoregulating, doesn’t develop water rings as easily, and actually looks like you’re trying even if caught in a surprise downpour/pissing rain. Feels more “adult” than my former strategy of “hope for the best, pray for dry feet.” Layering is key, but in less obvious ways. You can’t exactly throw on a jacket when it gets chilly, because now you look like you tried too hard.
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My solution? Pieces that enhance versus block. Light wash cardi in a complimentary but not matching shade- can dress it down with shoulders exposed when temperatures are high, but actually wear it when it gets cold, or tie around waist if necessary without looking like a miserable husk of a man.
One of my events-attending co-workers swears by his “emergency blazer.” Basically exists solely to attend garden parties and weddings, keeps one stuck in the lining of his tote at all times. It’s always navy, always lightweight, and can make you look instantly more “fitted” into casual attire when needed. Genius, though I’ve yet to master the art of a blazer that doesn’t look horribly wrinkled from being folded up in your bag.
Shoes are the biggest game changer, though. Grass = difficulties you don’t have to deal with when parties are only on pavement. Cold, mud-eating grass.
Sun-baked earth that’s basically concrete. Visible mud stains on anything lighter than black. Those sleek leather-soled Oxfords that are life for indoor parties are useless the second you step foot on genuine garden.
Fuck anything with a heel thinner than my thumb. Or, learned that lesson when one snapped during a wedding last summer and I had to spend half the reception tiptoeing around like homeless pirate. Block heels, wedge heels, or high-quality flats with rubber bottoms are your friends here.
Hate to say I was wrong, but comfort > trying to look slightly fancier while you’re visibly struggling. Same story with bags. Tiny leather crossbody that’s great for indoor parties?
Doesn’t cut it when you have to also fit: – Compact umbrella. – Sunglasses. OPTIMISM. – Light pashmina, if needed. Can serve many functions. – Blotting papers, because God help you if you forget those and British “summer” humidity decides to show up.
Invested in an oversized canvas tote that doesn’t scream “I stuffed every survival gadget known to man into this bag” but does fit: – Back-up shoes. – Everything else on this list. Speaking of list: colours mattered more too. Those airy whites and pastels may be ideal, but also show every drop of rain, splash of grass, and fingerprints your sweaty party-ing self encounters.
But dark colours will bake you when Sun Finally Decides To Show Up For Earth’s Biggest Garden Party. Ended up just living in a world of medium hues that disguise minor sins but don’t violate the season altogether. Greens, blues, non-offensive burgundies.
Hair’s become something of an ordeal, too. I used to try to show up in nice hair, only to have it ruin itself halfway through an event in British humidity.
Emma just goes with whatever shape her hair decides to do that day.
Brain explosion moment for me, but she’s right: plan a style that’ll only look better as weather deteriorates. Same for makeup, honestly. Trying to pull off a look that’ll only melt down at the first puff of wind is futile.
Might as well look effortlessly put together than try-too-hard as you frantically smash shampoo into your roots to regain some shred of dignity. The moral of the story is that you have to think like a British person about garden party dressing. It’s half hopefulness sprinkled with pessimism; picking an outfit that you’ll look semi-presentable in most weather scenarios but won’t be completely ruined if mother nature f–ks with you.
British people would never send a party invitation back due to “bad forecast,” so you might as well embrace that martyr spirit. I’m getting there. Considering the deluge from last weekend, Sunday’s meal in the garden was actually a resounding success.
Mini wallet in one hand, dry socks warming the other, I grabbed a seat under a tree and yelled aggressively about how the weather was “actually lovely if you looked over there” while probably ruining my manicure. It’s not the summers of my youth, but I’m learning to enjoy the unknowns.
