By this point in the summer, I’m sure you’re on top form when it comes to the dark arts of packing. For weekends, weddings and longer explorations of beaches, hills or cities, stowing the perfect amount of the right stuff is paramount. It’s a joy to revisit friends in Cap Ferret who, while job-smart in Geneva, are piratical rustics when in sight of the Atlantic, and we all lean happily into a little of the Bordeaux-hillbilly vibe that makes packing a cinch (as Phil Collins knew in 1985, there really is “no jacket required”). We’ve no doubt raised an eyebrow at other halves secreting a sixth pair of shoes in the last free corner of the that’s-meant-to-be-the-bloody-carry-on case. 

Packing is a practice that elicits strong emotions. There is a belief in a correct path, the Right Way. It’s a moral issue. Packing light is packing best; we all know this. But doing it economically takes strength, resolve and practice. If you haven’t capsule-wardrobed your way out of some dark nights of the soul, well, pal, take it from me: a linen jacket with a decent lapel and a pair of white jeans can save you a lot of heartache.

Packing light means – and shows – that you’ve thought about it. You’ve done the work. Now you’re standing at the departure gate, looking fresh and unencumbered and, yes, you’re enjoying the fact that other people are gnashing their teeth in anguish as the stewardess gives her stern assessment of the size and weight of their suitcase. (And what is that hanging out of the side – a bra-strap?) Straight into the hold and no passing go.

You’d be right to think that packing-lightliness – like cleanliness – is next to godliness. It displays an understanding of and respect for notions of self-restraint, control, a higher order. It confers a feeling, when wheeling one’s case, similar to that offered by gazing at the paintings of the 17th-century Dutch master Pieter Jansz Saenredam’s cool oils of the hushed interiors and vaulted ceilings of the largest of the churches in Haarlem and Utrecht. The vast calm of “just right”. We glimpse clarity and communion. Grand design. We grasp the higher purpose and, in Room 14 of Rome’s Hotel Locarno, our socks are rolled perfectly into our canvas chukka boots in our elegantly trim suitcase. Hallelujah!

But there’s also something a little seamy about packing light. Could it signal the need to escape, if necessary – being able to get out fast? Could it mean a dash of danger? Assignations in the night? We might think of Sean Connery’s James Bond slipping a banknote to a liveried bellboy to retrieve his slim valise, after which we see our hero in black tie, wearing a summer suit, strutting poolside in trunks and then playing golf in a Pringle sweater and slacks, before jumping into his Lagonda in a Gieves three-piece. All in different shoes. That’s not a suitcase – it’s a department store! Maybe there is a little editorial sleight of hand in packing that parsimoniously.

For all this, as I write, I’m getting ready to spend the weekend at one of the closing music festivals of the waning British summer. I will be sleeping in a tent. Yeah: get you, Dickie Greenleaf. I’ve been packing and re-packing for days and have more luggage than Elton and Mariah could summon for a camp glitzathon of a world tour. My efforts are a disgrace to everything that I hold dear. Think of me in your Greek villa with your six pairs of shoes. And sod Phil’s advice: I packed a jacket, just in case. 

Read next: The only clothes you need for a short-haul sojourn

This story originally appeared in The Monocle Minute

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