This summer has been the hottest and driest on record, and all the talk about how it compares to 1976 has sparked plenty of reflection. I was only one at the time, so I don’t remember that first great heatwave, but now that I’ve nudged past fifty, the symmetry feels hard to ignore. Two long, relentless summers acting as bookends to my life, each marking its moment in a very different world. It’s strange to think I’m old enough to have lived through both eras, and to wonder how the years between them have slipped away so quickly. If the shared thread between then and now is relentless heat, shrinking reservoirs and warm, airless nights, everything else around those hot days belonged to a very different time.
The village of Blagdon sits cosily in the Mendip escarpment, looking out over the reservoir that separates it from the looming presence of Bristol. Parking up, your eyes are drawn immediately to the planes climbing into the shimmering heat. The same heavy warmth hit me the moment I stepped from the air‑conditioned car. Today’s wander was all about Blagdon Lake. With a rough circuit in mind, we planned to circumnavigate the water on tracks, paths and hidden lanes, aiming for a vantage point that would hopefully offer a well‑earned view.
As has become customary this summer, we were dogless. It always feels as though something is missing when she isn’t with us, but in such conditions she is far better tucked up at home.
The connecting road that separates the reservoir from the village was an impressive place to start. Exposed to the elements, it offered an immediate sense of the size and purpose of this body of water. Levels were low, with none of the usual little fishing boats waiting patiently for a bite. The faint scent of the sea was likely emboldened by the algae thriving at its edges. Although strained, the lake still held its calm.
Thankfully, the path soon drew us away from the arid spillway, through the trees and onto a section lined with places to rest, muse and soak up the scene. In a world bombarded with wellness tips and advice, a well‑positioned bench has to be right up there, and probably isn’t appreciated enough. We passed silently so as not to disturb the couple sat peacefully looking out over the water. It was small snapshot in time that captured the moment perfectly.
There is no set path around Blagdon Lake, with quiet lanes and tracks drawing us away from the shoreline. Beyond the sleepy village of Butcombe, the incline grew steadily more demanding, made all the more testing by the heat pressing down.
As we climbed, my thoughts drifted to the last time Britain felt this parched, and to the world I was born into. The heat, the stillness and the slow pull of the ascent made it easy to imagine how different life must have looked during that first great drought, and how far the decades between then and now have carried us.
Back in 1976, when I was a contented baby unaware of the wider world, life in Britain looked markedly different. A working wage hovered around £65 a week, and the average house cost just over £10,000. The Ford Cortina was the nation’s favourite car, its radio crackling out Bohemian Rhapsody to listeners hearing it as something new. A posh meal might begin with a prawn cocktail served in a glass dish, while children tucked happily into their Findus Crispy Pancakes. The population stood at around 56 million, some thirteen million fewer than today. Harold Wilson and James Callaghan steered the country through its political waters, while Concorde carved its elegant path across the skies. Smartphones, email, social media, microwave ovens, airbags, contactless checkouts, fast fashion, MRI scanners and CDs were still figments of an excitable watch of Tomorrow’s World.
Those details belong to a Britain that feels distant now, yet sitting beneath the shade of a broad oak brought a quiet sense of connection. Its canopy offered the same cool refuge it would have given fifty years ago, and the view across the lake below has likely changed very little in that time. There is something deeply grounding in seeking out landscapes that have remained largely untouched by progress. Places where the constancy of shade, water and stillness reminds us that some experiences remain the same, no matter how much the world shifts around them.
Making our way back down, we found unexpected shelter in a holloway, its cool shade guiding us toward the quirky village of Nempnett Thrubwell. With its renovated street pump and the intriguingly named Awkward Hill, curiosity was sparked just as tired limbs began to ask how much distance remained. Gratefully, the path levelled out, carrying us past further follies and stunning sunflower fields, their colour a welcome distraction from the humidity that refused to loosen its grip.
St Andrew’s Church soon came into view, poised high above the lake, an impressive landmark signalling one last climb to meet us. It watches over the village with a steady pride, a gentle reminder that our walk was drawing to its close. As has become customary, a pub often marks the end of these small adventures. The New Inn proved perfect. From the garden, the view opened into a full panorama of the area we had covered, all appreciated while lingering over a well‑deserved pint of shandy.
In that moment, the value of stepping away from the rush of things became clear. Today’s route will have been walked by countless others over the past fifty years, each pausing at the same pub, each looking out over the same sweep of landscape. That simple thread of familiarity offers a reassuring connection to lives before ours, a reminder that the past and present, however different they may seem, still meet in places like this.
