At one time most people in the UK could remember the summer of 1976. But you’d have to be at least 55 years of age to have any real memory of that strange time. It was a foretaste of what we are going through today, the hottest June day on record.

I’m sitting at home in the garden, where it’s now 34c and starting – ever so gradually – to cool down. I’m well shaded by trees. So shaded that for most of the year this part of our small garden, which was designed as a dining area, is uncomfortably cold! Not today, it isn’t.

I know exactly where I was 50 years ago

My year in León, northern Spain, was coming to an end. The city was in party mode, though not for that reason. It was mid summer and León was in the throes of the San Juan y San Pedro fiestas. There was oppressive heat, bullfighting and 10 days of heavy drinking. On my way to the Plaza de Toros I noticed that the tarmac on the roads was melting. It was incredibly hot, but I was 21 and it was Spain after all. It tends to be hot in late June. Obvs.

Up in the barrio húmedo people were knocking beer, sangria, vermouth, like there was no tomorrow… School was over for the summer and my former pupils, mostly 16-17 year old girls, were out and about, waving and saying hola to me and my friends. 

Happy days

A few days later I headed to Bilbao to meet Mum and Dad, who had come over on the Patricia. As June turned to July it got even hotter. After they returned to England, I set off again to meet my friends Paul and Andy, who had just finished finals and fancied doing some interrailing. I joined them at San Sebastian.

The sweltering heat did not abate as we sweated our way through Lisbon, Seville, Granada and Barcelona. When even we couldn’t drink any more beer for fear of falling over or being sick, there was gazpacho and even, occasionally, coca-cola.

Then I got a flight home.

***

When you fly over England from Spain, the first thing you notice is the green of the fertile fields below. But this time England was as parched as Castile. It was the long, hot summer, when there was never a cloud in the sky. It looked like it was never going to rain again. It had not rained much the previous summer either, or even over the winter, and things were getting serious. 

I remember standpipes in the street

What had started as a novelty, a welcome change from our usual short and disappointing summers, was becoming a crisis. Of course it did rain again, in late August, almost as soon as the Government had appointed Denis Howell as Minister for Drought. We could then laugh about it.

At that time nobody talked about climate change. We didn’t realise what was happening and no-one was thinking about what might be causing it. Now we do, but there seems no realistic way of stopping it.

If it is uncomfortably hot in London, it is even worse in south-west France. Much as I like going to La Bréchoire, 40c is way too much. But I can choose when to go there and when to stay here. The locals can’t.

And it’s only June

So it’s off to Dorset next week. I vow not to complain if it barely reaches 20c – which, at the moment, seems quite likely.