I Moved to Scotland For The Weather

“He must be a masochist!” I can hear you all say. I will not delude myself; the Scottish climate is no scoffing matter. Parked on the Fife coast, a cocktail of wind, rain, and the occasional sleet is to be expected. The winter months garnish St Andrews’ tempests with a blanket of eighteen-hour darkness; in December, the sun might as well be an alien spacecraft. Come to mention, as I sit down to write this article, my flat audibly groans and shudders under 32 knots of buffeting wind. Still, here we are, braving another year in the Scottish elements. Let me convince you that the weather you now shake your fist and curse at is, in reality, to your benefit.

‘Gloomy’, ‘depressing’, and ‘I’m booking a flight to Tenerife’ are just a few common words and phrases in the St Andrean lexicon to — unjustly — characterise the Scottish weather’s undesirable psychological effects. Admittedly, soggy socks and seasonal depression aren’t exactly guarantees of mental well-being. However, being a homebody has its psychological benefits. For one, we students are forced to our studies and can avoid the undue stress of choosing between our Vic attendance streaks and deadline revision. To the rest, I believe a warm candlelit cup of tea avec gently pattering rain (with the addition of a strict vitamin D supplement regimen) provides a greater serotonin dose than any sunset or balmy summer’s night. There are fates worse than being holed indoors with good company, a warm meal, or a good book. The ubiquitous St Andrews flat-warming, dinner party, and common-room movie night take on sacred offices in the cold; uninclined cliques and awkward friendships conjoin, transubstantiating into a tender sense of welcome, being, and community that would not otherwise exist. I believe that it is between our homes and a scathing sheet of rain that we learn humility, sacrifice our egos, and embrace the virtue in our neighbours. Perhaps there is a moral lesson lying in the puddles.

Scotland’s residents have developed a beautiful culture around staying indoors. Whether you are a cosy cafe-goer or nighttime pub-meister, there is ever an establishment to embrace you in yellow-lit warmth, a barista or bartender with a pastry, pot, or pint to gift. Let an evening stroll down Market Street be my evidence: if you can squint through the fogged windows of any pub in town, a bundle of bustling merriment and hospitality awaits on the other side of the glass. The Old Union Coffee Shop basement is an excellent place to wait out a storm. In most Scottish cities and towns, a cosy bookstore lies no further than a stone’s throw — I’ve heard Topping and Co. serves complimentary tea if you ask nicely. Scotland has devised an entire industry around keeping people indoors, and in doing so, it has endowed us with the most strikingly cohesive culture of communion and generosity I have encountered. Let these weather workarounds speak to the vibrant Scottish ingenuity.

In an effort to be self-aware, I recognise that I am privileged to have lived in a similar climate my whole life; warm sweaters, rain jackets, and boots are as much a part of me as my fingers and toes. I can only imagine the sensory shocks Scotland’s elements award to those of you from more mild parts of the world. “It’s a dire matter of getting used to wearing long sleeves,” a friend from Bermuda tells me. To the readers I’ve failed to convince, let me ask: if nothing else, doesn’t the Scottish autumn and winter make going home just a little bit sweeter?

Illustration by Isabelle Holloway