This time last week, I was at a favourite hotel on the Mediterranean coast of Turkey when a member of staff told us there was an extreme heat warning for the next couple of days. People were being advised to stay indoors between 11am and 4pm to keep out of temperatures predicted to rise above 40 degrees. Cue much mirth from the British guests at breakfast. Come off it! We had travelled there from the United Kingdom of Raining Since November. We were desperate for some sun.
The great Billy Connolly once said: “There are two seasons in Scotland: June and Winter.” That’s how 2024 has felt although even flaming June has required a coat and, one cold night, the heating came on. Extreme heat? Bring it on, we cried.
And then I climbed up the steep hillside towards the village and the heat felt like a pelt wrapping itself around me, insinuating itself into my lungs. It was oddly oppressive. My heart was racing and, feeling wobbly, I headed back to my room where I drank a lot of cool water. A combination of basking in the pool and lying in the shade seemed to restore me to a normal temperature, but I got a scare all right.
What I didn’t know was that, 250 miles away, along the coast and a short hop across the sea to the Greek island of Symi, Dr Michael Mosley was setting out on a walk in that punishing heat that would end tragically with his body being found not far from a beach café where he could have been saved.
There was something quintessentially Englishman Abroad about the figure Michael cut on CCTV, sheltering under his purple umbrella. As one who is married to that wiry, determined breed, I knew he wouldn’t want to stop to take directions when he appeared to take the wrong path. Goodness, no. He would want to push on and get to where he needed to be. What was particularly poignant for fans of the wonderfully effervescent TV doctor was knowing that he was acting on his own advice. Keeping active, raising his heart rate, increasing his number of steps instead of taking the boat back to the place he was staying with his beloved wife Clare.
Michael Mosley was an inspiration for those of us in the danger zone for Type 2 diabetes, a condition he managed to reverse in himself. He became evangelical about the benefits of intermittent fasting – his 5:2 diet is a bible for sluggish fatties – and, like a kindly vicar coaxing you towards heaven, he insisted that a camel could get through the eye of a needle if you ate good carbs.
He was never judgmental about those who struggled with their weight, nor exploitative as so often that medium can be. I loved his frequently hilarious Channel 4 series Michael Mosley: Secrets of Your Big Shop in which he cast an expert eye over a family’s weekly food consumption. In one case, the supermarket trolley was almost full of the husband’s bumper bottles of cola. The man was clearly seriously addicted, and worryingly obese, but Michael remained resolutely cheerful, encouraging a few “tweaks” to behaviour here and there, revelling in any small sign of progress rather than causing shame and self-loathing.
There have rightly been many tributes to his work as an educator; he had the rare gift of being perfectly relaxed on TV, coming across as the lovely guy he was. He was the David Attenborough of physiology. Like the great naturalist, Michael Mosley was a boy wonder, blessed with boundless curiosity, even swallowing a tapeworm just to see what would happen.
It is almost too sad to bear that, even in his final moments, he would have been observing the effects of heatstroke with a keen interest, storing it up to pass on as a cautionary tale to his viewers and readers. What a loss he is, but I hope it is some consolation to Clare and the children that their extraordinarily wise, kind husband and father was adored by millions of strangers. We can still hear his voice in our heads on days when willpower is low.
Michael Mosley was a tonic for the nation’s health: just what the doctor ordered.
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