The first time I attempted a capsule holiday wardrobe was for a week in Cornwall when I was twenty-three. I’d just started at Thread magazine and was convinced I needed to embody some kind of minimalist fashion editor aesthetic – you know, the type who travels with just a tasteful linen shirt, perfect white jeans, and a single statement necklace. I spent ages planning this supposedly versatile collection of perfectly coordinated pieces, packed it all into a chic weekender bag (that was definitely too small but looked good, which was clearly the priority), and set off feeling unbearably smug.
Cut to day two, when it absolutely pissed it down for fourteen hours straight and my single pair of canvas trainers got so sodden they were still damp three days later.
Day three brought unexpected sunshine so blazing hot that my “versatile” black trousers made me sweat in places I didn’t know could sweat. By day five, I’d bought an emergency cagoule from a tourist shop (bright yellow, decorated with cartoonish seagulls – fashion!), borrowed my friend’s boyfriend’s hoodie, and was wearing flip-flops I’d purchased from a petrol station that gave me blisters in spectacular new locations.
Oh, how my colleagues laughed when I returned to the office looking nothing like the sun-kissed, effortlessly styled vision I’d imagined. “What happened to your perfectly planned capsule wardrobe?” Margot had cackled, eyeing the seagull cagoule I was still using because – surprise! – it was now raining in London too.
And therein lies the eternal struggle of the British holiday packer. Our weather is, to put it mildly, a vindictive, unpredictable nightmare. Add to that the torturous uncertainty of whether this year’s budget stretches to Margate or Mallorca (or, in my current case, can I justify both?), and you’ve got a packing predicament that would make even the most seasoned traveler weep into their carefully rolled t-shirts.
After fifteen years, approximately 37 holidays, and countless packing disasters, I’ve finally cracked the code for a truly versatile holiday wardrobe that works whether you’re dodging seagulls on Brighton pier or sipping sangria in Seville. And no, it doesn’t involve vacuum packs, rolling instead of folding, or any of that Marie Kondo business that looks great on Instagram but falls apart the moment you need to actually find your bloody sunscreen.
The first rule of UK/abroad packing is simple: accept that you will need slightly more items than the French capsule wardrobe influencers tell you. Those women are liars. I’ve watched them at Paris Fashion Week sweating through their “perfect” beige linen shirts or shivering in their “trans-seasonal” slip dresses. Nobody looks good when they’re uncomfortable, and nothing ruins a holiday faster than wearing damp clothes because you didn’t pack enough options.
I now operate on what I call the “adaptable foundations” system. It’s not about having the absolute minimum – it’s about having pieces that can genuinely work in multiple settings with multiple weather conditions. Take my most recent trip – a four-day weekend in Whitstable followed immediately by five days in Barcelona (yes, I took annual leave either side of a bank holiday, I’m not a monster).
My suitcase contained exactly three pairs of trousers: one proper denim that looks good with a slight roll at the ankle (Levi’s Ribcage straight leg, if you’re wondering), one pair of wide-leg linen-cotton blend (crucial – pure linen creases beyond recognition, the cotton mix makes them more resilient), and one smart-ish pair with an elasticated waist that could pass for proper trousers but are essentially secret pajamas. This last pair is my ultimate hack – mine are from Arket three years ago, and they’ve been everywhere from job interviews to fancy restaurants to actually sleeping on an overnight train when my accommodation plans went tits up in Milan.
For tops, I’ve abandoned the fantasy that a single white shirt works for every occasion. Instead, I pack one genuinely good cotton poplin shirt (oversized, can be tied at the waist, sleeves rolled up or down), two t-shirts in different weights (one lightweight for serious heat, one medium weight that can layer), and what I call a “fancy top” – something with a bit of interest that elevates basics but doesn’t scream “I’M GOING OUT OUT.” My current favorite is a black silk-cotton tank with the tiniest bit of smocking at the neck. Doesn’t crease, hand washes in a hotel sink, dry by morning.
Now, dresses. This is where people make their biggest mistake – packing seventeen near-identical sundresses “just in case.” You need precisely two: one that works with trainers for day but can handle sandals and earrings for dinner, and one slightly more substantial option that won’t result in hypothermia if the temperature drops or you end up in an aggressively air-conditioned restaurant. My never-fail combination is a cotton midi shirt dress (sleeves that roll, buttons that can be strategically undone depending on heat level, collar that makes it look intentional rather than just “hot weather clothes”) and a short-sleeved knitted dress that sounds bizarre but is genuinely the most useful garment I own.
Outerwear is where British holiday packing gets serious. I don’t care what the forecast says – if you’re staying in the UK, you need a proper rain jacket. Not a “shower-resistant” blazer, not a “light trench that folds up small.” An actual waterproof with a hood. Mine is from Rains, cost £85 four years ago, and has saved holidays from Devon to Edinburgh. The crucial part? It’s in a dark green rather than black, which somehow makes it look intentional rather than apologetic when I’m wearing it over a sundress.
For the dual-destination scenario, I always pack a denim jacket (works as an extra layer in the UK or for air-conditioned spaces/cooler evenings abroad) and what I call my “fancy cardigan” – a slightly oversized knit with interesting buttons that’s essentially a very soft jacket. Both can be worn together in an emergency cold snap, creating makeshift outerwear that’s kept me from developing hypothermia on more than one occasion.
Footwear is where most holiday wardrobes live or die. After the Soggy Cornwall Trainer Incident of 2011, I’ve become almost pathologically careful about shoe selection. My non-negotiable trio is: one pair of genuinely comfortable walking sandals (current favorites are Birkenstock Arizonas – not revolutionary, but they work with literally everything), one pair of trainers that can handle getting wet (currently some Veja Campo that still look decent when damp), and one pair of slightly fancier flat shoes that take up minimal suitcase space (for me, a pair of black suede pointed-toe Mary Janes that look dressy but can actually manage cobblestones).
Accessories-wise, I’ve learned that multiple tiny handbags are the enemy of efficient packing. Instead, I travel with one decent-sized crossbody for day (fits water bottle, small umbrella, phone, keys, lip balm, wallet, emergency snack – because I apparently travel like I’m supervising a school trip) and one small option for evening that fits just the essentials. Both in colors that work with everything – currently a tan leather crossbody and a black raffia clutch that’s survived three summers of heavy use.
The real secret to successful dual-climate packing, though, is the oft-neglected category of what I call “weather adapters” – those small additional items that dramatically transform how hot or cold an outfit feels. A cotton bandana or small silk scarf can be a sweat band, a shoulder cover in excessive air conditioning, a makeshift hair tie, or emergency sun protection for a red nose. A lightweight cotton shirt can be a cover-up over a swimsuit, a layer under a jumper, or tied around your waist when the sun suddenly emerges. Thin ankle socks can transform sandals into something that works with jeans when unexpected cold arrives.
I’ve also finally accepted the absolute necessity of a packable sunhat after an incident in Hastings where my scalp got so sunburned that my hair parting peeled for weeks afterward. (Not a good look, especially when you’re trying to appear professional in editorial meetings.) Mine is a slightly battered straw fedora that’s been crushed into countless bags but somehow springs back to life – I’ve wired the brim to help with this feat of structural engineering.
My swimwear strategy took years to perfect. The key isn’t packing seventeen different bikinis (my approach age 25) or a single “sensible” swimsuit (my approach age 30), but rather two complementary pieces that can mix and match. Currently, that’s a high-waisted bikini bottom that doesn’t give me cold kidneys when swimming in the British sea, a matching top, and a one-piece in a similar color palette. All pieces can work together, creating three different looks without taking up much space.
Perhaps the most significant realization in my holiday packing evolution has been accepting that great British summer dressing isn’t about pretending you’re permanently on the Riviera. It’s about embracing that unique UK summer aesthetic – something that can handle a blistering hot day that suddenly transforms into what feels like November by 4pm. There’s something quite satisfying about mastering clothes that work in multiple settings – the same outfit that handles a windswept beach in Broadstairs might, with minor modifications, handle tapas in Tarragona.
Last month, I ran into an old university friend at Heathrow. She was heading to Ibiza with a suitcase so enormous it probably had its own gravitational pull. Meanwhile, I was off to split my time between Manchester (for my brother’s birthday) and Madrid (for a fragrance launch), with just a cabin bag and tote. “How do you fit everything?” she’d asked, eyeing my relatively modest luggage. “I’ve packed six outfits for each day just in case.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that “just in case” thinking is exactly what leads to excess baggage fees and holiday wardrobes that don’t actually work in real life. Instead, I just mentioned my “adaptable foundations” approach, to which she nodded politely while trying to wrestle what appeared to be a fifth pair of wedge sandals into an already bulging side pocket.
Three days later, she WhatsApped me from Ibiza: “It rained. Nothing I packed works. Had to buy a jumper from a tourist shop that says ‘I ❤️ Ibiza’ in glitter. Send help.” I resisted saying “I told you so” and instead sent back a sympathetic emoji and a promise to help her pack for her next trip.
Because that’s the thing – good holiday packing isn’t an innate skill, it’s learned through multiple disasters.
I’ve been that person panic-buying completely random items from foreign supermarkets and tourist shops. I’ve worn a bikini with a hoodie on top because I misjudged the British summer. I’ve ruined good leather sandals in unexpected downpours and shivered through meals because I believed the deceptive sunshine outside my hotel window.
But now, whether I’m in Margate or Mallorca, I know I’ll be comfortable, appropriately dressed, and – crucially – able to handle whatever meteorological curveball gets thrown my way. And really, isn’t that the ultimate holiday luxury? Not the designer swimwear or the perfect linen matching set, but the simple knowledge that whatever the weather gods throw at you, you’ve got it covered. Literally.
