The One With The Rain in Spain

Having lived abroad for four of the last five years, I’ve accepted that there are some undying, unshakeable perceptions of the English. Or the British – I’m often told that England, Scotland et al don’t actually exist, which is rich coming from the Spanish.

Amongst these convictions, I’m assured that my countryspeople drink borderline-dangerous quantities of tea (which we do) and that we love wearing socks and sandals (which we don’t). Most regularly, though, I’m reminded of how wet, grim and generally miserable our weather is. Whenever it has the temerity to rain here (which, actually is quite a lot), I’m treated to “!jaja! It’s just like England isn’t it? Just like an English summer – you must feel at home!”

Me, probably.

The vast majority of Spaniards I’ve met who’ve spent any meaningful time in England tend to open any account of their time with “well, the weather was terrible, and it rained every day, but …” I should be grateful for the but, perhaps. There’s usually a period of grumbling about our food as well, but that’s a different story.

The thing is, they’re not entirely wrong, but … is it that much better here? In supposedly sun-soaked Andalucía, winter lasts from November through to February, which granted is shorter than England, but feels twice as long when you don’t have central heating and it’s frequently colder inside than it is out. While England’s been basking in 20-something degree heat this past Easter week, it’s been a bleak, grey washout here – and this is supposed to be the best part of the year, weather-wise. I’m under no illusions that the heat will come; give it a month or so and we’ll all be sitting around dripping with sweat, scurrying from shadow to shadow in case the sun catches a glimpse of us and slowly, steadily melting into gloopy pools on the floor.

So the morals of the minor moan – the rain in Spain falls mostly wherever I am, and English weather really isn’t all that bad, or peculiar.