Sounds of the Summer by Dammy Ponnuthurai

“From the fig tree learn its lesson: as soon as its branch becomes tender and puts out its leaves, you know that summer is near.”— Matthew 24:32

The sometimes unexpected heat of a British summer forces a change in the pace of life. Regardless of the temperature, summer arrives with a sweeping entry of light. As if by the stroke of a painterly brush, we are awoken each morning by the beckoning of a particular kind of light. Even on cloudier days, there’s often an edge of humidity in the air that makes the light feel different.

This morning, I was asked while walking with a friend in the park how we were coping with the heat. She replied, “embracing a Mediterranean lifestyle.” What did that really mean? For her, it meant slowing down and allowing to adjust her days with the sun, connecting to nature and more balance in her days, between work and time spent with family and friends. We understand that the Mediterranean lifestyle often comes without the relentless productivity that marks much of our lives. Someone recently referred to this as ‘toxic productivity,’ or a kind of hyper-vigilance around always doing something with a tangible output. It’s the inability to simply be without needing something to do, to relax without the aid of a phone or a screen, to just exist without external stimulation, usually wrapped up in some defined purpose.

The recent UK heatwaves somehow put the brakes on this. We are ill-equipped, in both our buildings and our streets, for such heat. And yet it prompts a kind of slowing down, an interruption of that ‘toxic productivity.’ On these days, the weekdays sound different to me than they do at other times of year. They bring a chance to slow down without guilt, to prepare lunch outside and take the time to eat it, to enjoy nature and the company we keep. It is the sound of contentment without a goal.

The mobility of our Vlaze outdoor kitchen on wheels presents an opportunity to quietly transform how we use our space by allowing us to change where we place the unit, whether inside the house or out. That sense of playfulness gives us the freedom to step outside our rigid routines and shift the kitchen to follow the light, the breeze, or the mood of the moment. That movement, and its corresponding sound, almost acts as an awakening of the senses, including the one of hearing.

On these lighter days, I feel as though I can hear what could be defined as the sound of summer. It’s a bit like how weekends feel a shift in tempo. When I mention this to my sixteen-year-old son, his teenage disposition melts into a smile. He talks to me of ice cream vans and children playing. There is, it seems, an aliveness in the world. Conversations around me feel more joyful. The birds seem louder. In recent days, I’ve noticed ladybirds and butterflies, details that can often go unseen. Routine feels turned on its head during these extremely hot days, as we both enjoy the sun and share in a relaxed energy that warmth seems to invite.

Recently, while finishing a coffee in the sun, the sound of summer was captured for me by the end of the school year, the shrieks of young teenagers, with summer stretching ahead. Suddenly, routine is left behind, and in the long hours of light, it’s almost as if there are many days folded into one.

Sound is sometimes overlooked. It’s unseen, but it sets the tone of an environment. Lately, I’ve been leaving my phone at home during walks or after the working day. It helps me tune in to the outside world with more awareness. Without feeding myself a constant stream of information, I’ve begun to notice more, to be more present. It’s in these moments that the sound of summer has taken shape for me, not just as a sensation but as a kind of phenomenon.

Though we often sit in our individuality, there is a collective sense in which we share an environment and that really rings through in the summer. We all participate in the joy of outdoor activity, whether actively involved or simply observing. Hearing the sound of our environment — and not staying plugged out — creates a new kind of escapism, one that invites us to slow down, to look around, and to notice the change in the leaves on that fig tree.

In these moments of seasonal presence, design plays a quiet role. Our outdoor kitchen doesn’t just serve us suppers, it shifts with us, offering a kind of flexibility that lets life unfold more slowly, more intentionally, outdoors.