A Bristol survival kit for depressive weather

There’s something character-building about being a student in winter. By “character-building,” I mean you’ll develop a cough that rivals an 18th-century chimney sweep’s.

It’s officially that time of year again, the Bristol sky has turned fifty shades of grey, the wind is personally victimising me on Park Street, and I can no longer feel my toes. The sun sets at 4pm (if it even rose), and my serotonin has packed up and gone to Madrid.

But fear not, whether you’re a fresher facing your first West Country winter or a jaded third year who’s basically photosynthesised their way through depression by the ASS Library windows, there are ways we can wade through this. Together, we might just make it through without fully dissolving into puddles of existential dread.

Perhaps these tips will make every walk to campus feel less like a Hunger Games arena.

1. Greggs: The thermal initiative

Who needs gloves when you can carry two fresh sausage rolls straight from the oven? One for the soul, one for the hands. There’s something deeply healing about huddling under a shop awning, rain dripping down your fringe, clutching a lukewarm steak bake and pretending it’s central heating. Bonus: the pastry crumbs will act as insulation for your coat pockets. Sustainable, in a way.

2. Caffeine dependency

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By week four, your bloodstream will mostly be Pret oat flat white. The staff know your name, your order, and your personal traumas. You’ll start to wonder if £3.80 a day is cheaper than therapy (spoiler: It’s not). For those feeling fancy, ditch the chain and hit a Cotham indie café where the lighting is dim enough to hide your dark circles. You’ll call it “romantic academia,” but really you’re just avoiding the mirror in the SU toilets.

Eventually, your body will replace sleep with caffeine and anxiety. That’s fine, just call it efficiency. Who needs rest when you have cool latte art and repressed panic?

3. A waterproof wardrobe (that isn’t)

Everyone says they’re prepared for the rain, but no one truly is.

Your “vintage” charity shop trench coat? Not waterproof. Your Depop corduroy jacket? Also not waterproof. Bristol’s students collectively reject umbrellas as “not the vibe,” which means you’ll be soaked head to toe while pretending it’s intentional. Embrace the wet look. If your hair resembles seaweed, you’re officially part of the local ecosystem.

If I can teach you anything, it’s to go to any discount shop and buy an umbrella of your choosing. After all, if you can’t control your emotions, you might as well try controlling the weather.

4. Endure transport trauma (and free cardio)

No one talks enough about the psychological warfare that is Bristol public transport in winter. The bus tracker will say “two minutes” for approximately 47 minutes. By the time it arrives, you’re half-hypothermic and questioning your degree choices. The 72 appears once every blood moon, and the climb up St Michael’s Hill counts as both your daily exercise and penance. You will arrive everywhere damp, breathless, and spiritually broken. But on the bright side, your health app thinks you’ve been doing HIIT.

So, plan ahead. Leave 20 minutes early, bring a spare pair of socks, and accept punctuality is a myth invented by people with cars. If all else fails, take solace in the fact that everyone else on the bus is just as damp and dead inside as you are.

5. Flat survival

Every flat has its own microclimate: One room is Antarctica, another is the Sahara, and the bathroom is a rainforest (complete with its own thriving mould ecosystem). The dehumidifier you bought from Tesco will give up before you do.

At some point, you’ll catch yourself saying, “I actually love the moody vibe of Bristol in winter.” That’s called denial. You are dissociating. But go ahead: Light a candle, play Radiohead, and pretend your mouldy student flat is a Parisian attic. It’s not happiness, but at least denial is cheaper than rent.

Treat it as character development. You’ll emerge in spring slightly mildewed but emotionally bulletproof. That’s personal growth, or at least spores.

6. Emotional support flatmates

Your flatmates are your emotional first responders. They’ll drag you to Co-op for “fresh air therapy,” cook you pasta that’s 80 per cent butter, and host emergency Traitors screenings when morale dips below sea level.

Invest in communal coping mechanisms: Cheap candles, communal blankets, and a bottle of Lidl wine that tastes like petrol but feels like a hug. We don’t do self-care, we do group denial and call it friendship.

7. Go out anyway

Bristol nights out don’t stop for rain, they just get wetter, muddier, and somehow more biblical. You’ll stand in the Lakota queue in a storm, mascara running like the River Avon, claiming it’s “all part of the look.” It’s not Halloween, but you look possessed.

Every club floor becomes an ice rink, and your cowboy boots will never recover. The Triangle in winter is a survival sport; you’ll emerge looking like a drowned Victorian orphan but spiritually reborn. Think of it as a baptism. You go out one person and return another: Wetter and colder. Bristol nightlife doesn’t end, it just evaporates with you at the bus stop at 3 am.

8. Seasonal acceptance

Eventually, you stop fighting it. You stop checking the weather app and pretending to own waterproof shoes. You simply become one with the drizzle. You’ll learn to love the winter, the way the city glows under streetlights and puddles, the mist over the harbourside, the collective misery that somehow feels like community.

By February, you’re not surviving, you’re transcending. A soggy phoenix, rising from the ashes of your destroyed umbrella.