Should You Chase the Sun? Why Flying South Only Half-Fixes Winter

Winter arrives in Britain like a colleague who stands too close and insists on chatting just when you were planning to sneak out early. You brace for the usual routine: the four-hours-of-daylight performance, the rain that isn’t really rain but rather atmospheric sarcasm, and the sudden urge to hibernate with carbohydrates and denial. Around November, half the country starts idly checking flight prices to Tenerife as though sunshine were an essential medicine conveniently stockpiled in airport lounges.

People talk about winter-sun escapes almost as therapy. One week under a palm tree and—allegedly—you return a revived, glowing, emotionally solvent human being. But does the science agree? Or could local micro-doses of daylight and a brisk walk offer the same benefits without the airport queues and the canary-yellow cocktails?

This question has become a quiet seasonal obsession. Perhaps it’s the mounting evidence that light plays puppet-master with our mood. Perhaps it’s the creeping sense that winter might actually be negotiable. And perhaps it’s the sinking feeling that maybe the pricey flight south is more psychological placebo than biological upgrade.

To understand whether migration is worth the mileage, you first need to appreciate what winter does to your brain. Our biology, ever so politely, revolts. Light exposure drops, circadian rhythms wobble, serotonin production slows, melatonin misbehaves, and the entire system mutters something about hibernation rights. Only a small slice of people develop full-blown Seasonal Affective Disorder, but a far larger slice slides into low-grade winter misery: foggy heads, sleepy afternoons, snack-based emotional scaffolding.

The funny thing is that nature always provided the antidote: daylight. Not the anaemic drizzle-filtered daylight that Britain specialises in, but a decent dose of outdoor light. Even on a grey day, the outdoors is brighter than most interiors, yet somehow we spend our winters engineered into buildings that rival caves for luminosity. This is where the idea of “micro-doses” of daylight enters the story. Tiny interventions. A thirty-minute morning walk. A lunchtime escape from office fluorescence. Facing the window like a houseplant with ambition.

Researchers keep finding that these small acts aren’t small at all. People who grab even an hour of daily outdoor light tend to report better mood, better sleep, better everything-that-feels-slightly-off-in-winter. Exposure early in the day seems especially powerful. It’s the biological equivalent of giving your body clock a polite nudge and a cup of tea at the same time.

So far, so manageable. The kind of winter tactic you can deploy without leaving the country. But this is when the lure of the south glides in wearing sunglasses. What about a blast of genuine sunshine? You know, the sort that makes your bones feel luminous and sends your serotonin vaulting around like it has weekend plans.

Winter-sun holidays do seem to deliver a short-term lift. Stronger natural light floods your system. You spend more time outdoors. You probably walk more, socialise more, relax more, and are less entombed by daily routine. Your circadian rhythm, usually a bit sulky in December, perks up with enthusiasm. People with SAD often report notable relief during these trips, enough to wonder whether humanity simply evolved incorrectly and should all be living within 500 metres of a beach bar.

But the enthusiasm needs a footnote. Your body is a quick learner and an even quicker forgetter. The moment you return to northern skies and office lighting—boom—the clock shifts back. Whatever gains you made in your sunny week away begin to dissolve unless you establish new daylight habits back home. This is why travelling south is more of a mood top-up than a cure. It’s like buying an expensive moisturiser and then washing your face with sandpaper.

Still, the comparison between a holiday and micro-doses of local light is more interesting than it first appears. Both strategies ultimately work through the same mechanism: light. Whether it comes from a Mediterranean beach or a reluctant patch of British sky, the biology doesn’t overly discriminate. The main difference lies in consistency. A one-off mega-dose of sunshine feels marvellous, obviously, but the mood improvements fade without ongoing exposure. Daily micro-doses, on the other hand, slowly build a rhythm that stabilises mood far more durably.

There’s also the subtle matter of expectation. When you fly south, your brain packs not just sunglasses but narrative. You expect to feel better. You anticipate joy. You step into the sun with the theatrical readiness of someone performing wellness. And psychology, being a mischievous partner in crime, often obliges. Anticipation alone measurably boosts wellbeing. This is why the pre-holiday glow sometimes begins weeks before you even touch the sand.

But there’s an equal and opposite twist: returning home. The post-holiday slump is real. One minute you’re floating in turquoise shallows; the next you’re squinting at the contents of your fridge wondering how a person with recent tropical credentials can be expected to eat leftovers. Your circadian rhythm, which had just about recalibrated itself to scenic sunsets and morning swims, sulks back into northern mode.

It would be unfair to say travelling south does nothing. It clearly does something. Strong sunlight improves vitamin D levels, which matter for immune function and general health even if they aren’t a magic wand for mood. Physical activity increases. Rest comes more easily when life temporarily stops shouting. You often sleep better. Your stress system gets a breather. And for many people, especially those battling severe SAD or living in extremely low-light regions, a winter-sun escape can feel less like a treat and more like a seasonal life raft.

Yet the data suggests that for the average winter-weary soul, meaningful mood improvement doesn’t require a passport. It requires light in regular, daily amounts. The kind of brightness you can obtain from a good SAD lamp or from the feeble-but-still-scientifically-useful daylight that Britain reluctantly provides. The trick is to actually go outside long enough for your biology to notice.

A walk before work. A coffee outside even if you have to clutch the cup like a hand-warmer. Working by a window that receives actual daylight rather than ambient grey. Treating daylight as medicine rather than decoration. It all adds up.

And there’s a slightly mischievous class angle lurking here too. Winter-sun travel has become a sort of seasonal self-care ritual for people who can afford it. Meanwhile, those without the budget quietly enact equally effective science-backed strategies with nothing more exotic than a park bench, a scarf and a half-hour lunch break. The body doesn’t know your socioeconomic status; it only knows the lux hitting your retina.

There’s also the big, looming environmental contradiction. Many people sit in therapy confessing climate anxiety and then book a carbon-heavy flight to chase a serotonin holiday. It’s the kind of contradiction modern life specialises in. But it’s also an opportunity to rethink how we survive winter without burning jet fuel. If micro-dosed daylight, local green spaces and light-therapy lamps offer comparable benefits, the ethical dilemma begins to loosen.

Of course, not everything about winter gloom is about light. There’s the social contraction—the way people retreat indoors and quietly reduce their social diet. Going south often restores that. You end up chatting, exploring, eating outside, seeing friends or making new ones. Happiness researchers repeatedly show that social connection has as much influence on winter mood as sunlight does. This is another reason a holiday feels so transformative: you not only collect photons; you collect people.

But again, this too is partly replicable locally. A brisk morning walk with a friend. A Saturday spent exploring a woodland trail. Meeting someone for a daylight coffee instead of an after-dark drink. It seems almost laughably simple, but so much winter malaise is structural rather than personal. Change the structure—more daylight, more movement, more connection—and mood often follows.

Then there’s the philosophical question. Perhaps the winter blues are not just biochemical mischief but also a cultural script. We half-expect to feel worse in winter, so we notice each drop in energy more acutely. We treat winter like something to endure rather than inhabit. Escaping south becomes the heroic narrative, even if the evidence suggests we might be able to negotiate a truce with winter rather than flee it.

In practice, the smartest winter strategy is usually a hybrid. Travel south if you love it, if you can afford it, if the idea itself lifts your spirits. Enjoy the sunlight and the break from routine. But don’t assume it will carry you through February intact. Use the holiday as a reset rather than a remedy. Return with a plan: daily outdoor light, earlier exposure, more movement, maybe a SAD lamp, maybe a vitamin D supplement if needed. Treat the sunshine week as the opening chapter rather than the whole story.

Travelling south won’t save your winter mood on its own. It gives it a holiday, not a long-term contract. The real magic happens in the repeated, mundane moments: opening the curtains early, stepping outside even when it feels energetically impossible, reclaiming daylight as something you’re allowed to need. Winter becomes less unbearable when you stop letting it trap you indoors.

Perhaps the most compelling conclusion is this: the sunniest place in winter might simply be wherever you bother to stand under the sky. A southern escape is lovely—blissful even—but a habit of daily daylight is the thing that keeps your internal weather from collapsing entirely.

So travel if you want. Bask, restore, glow. Then come home and actually go outside.