Royal Meteorological Society

Ah, the Royal Meteorological Society – or RMetS, if you’re on nickname terms, which we obviously are. Founded back in 1850, when trains were still a novelty and people thought catching a chill could be fatal, it’s still around. Watching the skies. Making sense of clouds. Being criminally underappreciated by the umbrella-wielding masses who treat forecasts like personal insults when it rains unexpectedly.

RMetS is, in many ways, the embodiment of Britishness. A little soggy, slightly eccentric, always prepared for unpredictable changes, and quietly brilliant. It all began with a group of Victorians who were far too enthusiastic about barometers. James Glaisher, the first president, was a proper adventurer. His idea of research involved clambering into a hot air balloon and floating off into the heavens. At one point he lost consciousness from lack of oxygen. His co-pilot, who was probably promised a relaxing afternoon in the sky, had to handle the descent. No seatbelts, no safety regulations, just raw scientific enthusiasm and questionable health and safety.

What’s rather charming is that RMetS doesn’t keep itself locked away in an ivory tower. You don’t need a PhD in cloud classification to join. If you’ve ever sighed dramatically at grey skies or felt a thrill from correctly predicting a thunderstorm, you’re halfway there. The Society opens its arms to academics, teachers, TV weather presenters, and that one mate who always insists it’s going to snow based on the way the birds are flying.

They publish their own journal. Sounds dry? Not quite. It’s packed with the kind of content that gets meteorologists hot under the collar – temperature trends, rainfall anomalies, pressure systems misbehaving. This isn’t just nerdy weather chat; this is the stuff that keeps planes in the sky and crops from drowning. It underpins climate research and informs major infrastructure planning. Think of it as the quiet cousin of scientific publishing who’s actually saving your barbecue from a washout.

And then there’s their love affair with clouds. Not just fluffy blobs – oh no. They’re given names like Lenticularis (the UFO-shaped ones), Mammatus (those moody, lumpy underbellies), and Cirrostratus (the ones that whisper “it’s going to rain soon”). It’s like a fantasy novel set in the sky. They don’t stop there. They run photography competitions that elevate cloud spotting to a fine art. Some of the images are so breathtaking they make you feel underdressed just looking at them.

Let’s talk about wartime meteorology. During WWII, weather data became a matter of national security. The Allies needed clear skies and predictable tides for D-Day. RMetS members worked covertly, calculating forecasts that would shape history. No one writes spy thrillers about the guy with the slide rule and the weather charts, but maybe they should. The real action heroes had tea-stained lab coats and a dangerous knowledge of humidity.

You want more Britishness? They’ve got a weather-themed book club. Imagine a cosy room full of people dissecting literary storms and fictional fog with a pot of Earl Grey on the table. Novels about frostbite, memoirs about sailing through hurricanes, maybe a surprise dash of Dickens – all bound together by a love of the elements.

Their headquarters sit quietly in Reading, not a town you’d expect to house a temple to meteorological brilliance. No dramatic skyline, no looming clouds of cinematic proportions – just a steady drizzle of dedication and science. Inside, though, it’s buzzing with weather watchers, data diggers, and people who get genuinely excited about dew point readings.

In 2020, RMetS turned 170. They didn’t mark it with a flash mob or a TikTok challenge. Instead, they honoured the milestone with lectures, carefully crafted infographics, and yes – a dignified amount of precipitation. Celebrations, but with isobars.

Their outreach to schools is one of the best things they do. It’s delightfully grassroots – children building rain gauges out of plastic bottles and charting rainfall with the kind of commitment most adults can’t muster for their own tax returns. That’s how future meteorologists are made: one soggy worksheet at a time.

Oh, and you’ll want to hear about their podcast. It’s proof that, yes, two people can have a passionately nerdy conversation about fog density for forty minutes and make it sound utterly riveting. It’s full of expert interviews, stories from the field, and charming awkwardness that makes it feel like eavesdropping on your favourite local weather presenters.

Become a member, and you get access to real weather data. You could plan your outfits six months in advance, if you fancy. Not that it’ll help. This is Britain, after all. The sky does what it wants. But there’s a comfort in knowing you tried. And that someone, somewhere, predicted this exact moment of drizzle with frightening accuracy.

The thing is, the Royal Meteorological Society has been quietly doing its thing for over a century and a half. It’s survived empires, recessions, technological revolutions, and endless jokes about the British obsession with weather. And through it all, it’s kept its eyes on the clouds and its mind in the science. It’s powered by passion, precision, and a near-magical ability to make rainfall fascinating.

Because at the end of the day, the weather isn’t just a polite way to avoid awkward silences. It’s a story. A force. A mood. And the Royal Meteorological Society? They’re the storytellers who’ve been reading the sky like a novel for generations. Rain or shine, they’re always watching.