Sunshine, Peak District Chaos, & Centre Court Dreams.

So, London summer being London summer, I’ve somehow managed to skip my June post (cue endless grief from Mum, love you though x). It’s been a wildly eventful couple of months—work trips, long days, sunburn, and just enough drama to make it all feel very me. Between the hay fever, half-empty offices, and spontaneous picnics that somehow turn into parties, this season has been chaos in all the best ways.

Peak District Adventures.

June was a blur of work events and catch-ups, but the highlight was the 42km walk-slash-camping trip up in the Peak District (in support of UK mental health charity, Mind). If you haven’t been, go. It’s like walking through a postcard—rolling hills, old pubs, and trails that seem designed to test both your lungs and your relationships. The air up there feels different, almost like you’ve stepped into another decade where people actually talk to each other without checking their phones.

We didn’t exactly start strong. My team, in true London fashion, arrived with more prosecco than practicality. One of the guys, Chris (born and bred Essex, bless him), was so proud of his “new tent.” We pitched it on a school field, just as the rain started to spit down. I turned to him and asked, “Where’s the fly?” He blinked and went, “What’s a fly?” Cue me standing there, drumming my fingers on my lips, trying not to lose it. Construction lads are good at improvising though—we ended up buying rubbish bags and pegs to fashion a makeshift rain cover. Honestly, it looked like an art installation, but it worked.

Once we’d settled in, the evening actually turned magical. Warm wine from paper cups, a crackling Bluetooth speaker, and that familiar mix of damp grass and cheap deodorant that defines British camping. With a bottle of wine, a warm sleeping bag, and me sandwiched between two blokes for warmth, I actually slept alright. Poor Bavesh on the edge wasn’t so lucky—he woke up drenched and frozen. By the time we started the walk, his back was in spasm, and we were trailing behind everyone else. He powered on though, mostly thanks to guilt and group peer pressure. By the end, we were all soaked, blistered, and exhausted—but also buzzing. There’s something about the British countryside that just feels so wholesome.

Wimbledon Dreams.

Fast-forward to July, and I finally made it to Wimbledon! I queued from 5:30am (the Brits love a queue) with the girls, armed with bubbles, SPF, and the kind of optimism that only early morning sunshine brings. There’s nothing quite like sipping prosecco at 6:30am while the temperature is already in the high 20s. I’ve never been much of a tennis watcher, but Wimbledon is magic—the energy, the strawberries, the outfits. Even the security guards seem glamorous. I didn’t manage Centre Court tickets this time, but apparently you can ask people leaving early to pass theirs on, and it’s totally normal. Only in Britain could queue etiquette extend to ticket swaps.

And yes, I did briefly consider buying a white pleated skirt after seeing how chic everyone looked. Consider this my soft admission that I’ve become that girl. I also fell into the classic skincare trap—forgot my SPF reapplication, came home with the faintest patchy burn across my chest, and have since been moisturising like my life depends on it. Lesson learned.

We ended the day sprawled on the hill, Pimms in hand, gossiping about dating apps and debating whether “love” in tennis is just the universe’s way of mocking us.

Thames & Heartbreak.

The following week, work hosted summer drinks on a boat along the Thames—basically the perfect office night out. The weather was balmy, the rosé was cold, and the skyline sparkled. It also happened to be the same night England played Croatia in the World Cup. The entire boat was glued to the TV, screaming, cheering, then groaning as they lost 2–1 in extra time. I’m not usually into football, but even I got caught up in the chaos. There’s something endearing about watching grown men cradle pints like emotional support animals.

We all ended up at a riverside pub afterwards, trying to console each other. I told them us Kiwis know the pain well—especially after the heartbreak of 2007 (still not over it). It didn’t help, but it earned me a few pints. Someone started singing “Sweet Caroline,” and suddenly the whole pub joined in—it was ridiculous and brilliant. British heartbreak has a soundtrack, apparently.

Dating & Other Disasters.

And then there’s Sam. I know I haven’t mentioned him in a while, but it’s… confusing. Some days we text like a couple, and other days he’s as cold as the Thames in January. Dating here is wild—everyone’s juggling “rosters,” ghosting is apparently a hobby, and you practically need a project plan to get a second date. I keep reminding myself that being single in London is supposed to be empowering, but honestly? Some nights it’s just exhausting.

I’ve been leaning into self-care instead: Sunday facials, hair masks, long walks with podcasts that make me feel like I’ve got it all figured out (spoiler: I don’t). There’s comfort in the ritual of it all—cleansing, moisturising, resetting. Still, I miss the simplicity of Kiwi dating; fewer games, more honesty, fewer people who describe themselves as “emotionally unavailable but working on it.”

Still, I’m getting better at laughing about it all—rosé helps, as does remembering that everyone’s winging it, even the ones who pretend they’re not. My flatmate’s latest motto is “romanticise the chaos,” and honestly, that might just be the only dating advice worth keeping.

Here’s to August—more sun, fewer blisters, and maybe, finally, a text back from Sam. Or at least better SPF discipline.

Jess x