In this season’s edition of The Author magazine I was fascinated by an article by Alexandra Harris, author of Weatherlands, a book that explores the relationship between the writer and the weather in English literature (well worth reading; you can find it on Amazon here).

The article, entitled ‘Fine weather for writing’, considers how the seasons – their weather, their light, their spirit – affect a writer. Ms Harris explains how winter is her season for writing, and suggests ‘no-one should expect to write very much in August’, the ‘peak time for immersive work, yet also for being with family and friends, for adventure and experiment, and for relaxation to last us all year round’.

I know well the English weather; I have lived in England since my twenties, through all seasons. So I understand well how the height of summer can when little is accomplished beyond daydreaming over a lemonade on the patio or walking through a field of wildflowers. But in recent years, I have taken to summering at my home in France, on the south coast a little way from St Tropez, and I have noticed that doing so has greatly boosted my writing.

In her article, Ms Harris explains: ‘On glorious days the weather requires attention, and it feels ungrateful, irresponsible, to stare down at the laptop you shield with a precisely angled sunhat rather than looking out at the endless glittering detail of the sunlit world.’

I quite agree; this is how I feel… in England. Because in England the weather is so variable, and truly glorious days are so rare that they must be highly prized and admired.

But in France, I find there are so many more glorious days. Even overcast days can be quite stunning, with variant colours in the rolling clouds and sometimes a theatrical thunderstorm. The weather does not pull me from my writing; instead, it inspires me to write. I write on the terrace overlooking the sea; I write in the gazebo shaded by tall trees and serenaded by cicadas.

I find that in my summer writing, I am moved to write of summer: to situate my romances in hot, sultry places. Take my latest novel Masquerade. It is set in Cadiz, Spain, where the heroine lives in her parents’ summer house:

The bright and airy summer house was so different from the imposing hacienda of El Pavón and for those who knew her well, it was little wonder that Luz found as many excuses as possible to escape here, where she could be near the wild and windswept cliffs, allowing the invigorating smell of the sea to fill her lungs.

The views from her vantage point on the terrace at the back of the villa were wondrous; there was so much incident to the ever-changing skyscape and to the land itself. It was as if nature was behaving like a magician with a wand, revealing or concealing vistas of the most beguiling beauty. Under a huge arc of sky, where racing cotton-wool clouds folded and unfolded, appeared and disappeared, an enamelled sea the colour of pure cobalt spread itself in front of her. Dancing waves unwound over stretches of glistening white sand, extending infinitely in a straight line. On the opposite shore Puerto de Santa María, the shimmering salt plains and marshy wetlands of Las Salinas behind it, was edged by a far-off screen of pine trees and the masts of ships. In front of the town boats and yachts painted in bright Van Gogh colours bobbed up and down in the port.

I love my heroines to have such vistas, the kind that one travels to see. My aim with my writing is always to transport my readers to someplace beautiful; I suppose you could say that my Andalucian Nights trilogy is a passport to sunny, sultry Spain.

Of course, I write all year round; I am quite lost without a novel in the making. Sometimes, then, I write stories in which the sun is less constant; The Echoes of Love, for example, is set in Venice in the winter. But usually I am drawn to the warmth and the light; it must be my upbringing in Alexandria, I suppose.

I think my summers in France fuel my writing for the rest of the year. When I am writing a scene back in England on a rain-swept, blustery day, I can close my eyes and remember the feel of the sun on my skin and the scent of bougainvillea on the gentle breeze.

How do the seasons affect your productivity and creativity and mood? Is the summertime your time for whatever most inspires you? Do you love to read romances set in the summer? I would love to hear your thoughts.