WE sometimes talk about having four seasons in one day and that’s truer than ever in these days of unstable climate.

The other day I experienced four seasons, maybe eight seasons, maybe at a pinch 12 seasons in one afternoon stroll.

You know what it’s been like lately; after a winter that seemed to be as grey as that old vest you used for a floorcloth the spring seemed to arrive like a kid trying to argue with a nightclub bouncer.

There was rain, there was wind, there was wind and rain at the same time which is no good if you’re standing at a bus stop.

The other afternoon I set off for my afternoon stroll; as regular readers will know, if I’m not otherwise occupied I try to get four strolls a day in: the early stroll, the late morning stroll, the afternoon stroll and the evening stroll.

The afternoon stroll is mainly there to guard against The Afternoon Slump, which is common in blokes my age, especially blokes who get up very early; by about three o’clock, particularly if we’re sitting on the settee listening to some gentle classical music, the head starts to nod (and not in time with the conductor’s baton either) and the body starts to loll and before I know it I’m in the lad of dreams so before that sequence has a chance to begin I crowbar myself upright and go for my afternoon stroll.

So here I am about to set off. I’ve got my walking boots on. I’ve got my walking jacket. I’ve got my woolly hat on because although the nights and the mornings are getting lighter there’s still a nip in the air.

I step out of the house and the sun is shining. There’s a gentle breeze that tickles the edges of my hat. I zip my coat up against the vague chilliness.

On the horizon, somewhere over Grimethorpe, I can see some black clouds but they’re miles away. It might be just drizzling a bit in West Yorkshire but they can keep it.

We don’t want it. My stride is brisk because brisk striding is better for me than unbrisk striding.

I’m listening to some jazz music on my earphones: I love jazz and it’s great for drowning out the sound of the cars racing up and down the A635. Not that I’m on the road, of course. I’m on the pavement.

The gentle breeze suddenly becomes less gentle. It matches my briskness. The breeze becomes more than a breeze.

It becomes a strong wind and then it becomes something that I can only describe as a gale. It is almost a named storm: storm Ian, the grey-haired storm. I can hardly hear the jazz I am listening to because the wind is so loud.

How did this happen? I’ve only gone a few hundred yards and I’m thinking of nipping into a bus shelter before the wind steals my hat. How can the weather go from breeze to this in the blink of an eye that’s blinking because it’s had grit blown into it?

I stroll on, against the wind, slowing my walking almost to a halt. I look up at a passing plane and I’m glad I’m not on it. If I could fasten my strolling seatbelt I would.

Then, as fast as it arrived, the wind blows itself away and it becomes a breeze again. Rushing clouds stop rushing. They dawdle and I dawdle too and the jazz I’m listening to becomes a gentle piano solo. Birdsong breaks out.

Then it starts to drizzle. That cloud from over Grimethorpe way has arrived. I don’t mind walking in the rain. As the old saying goes, there’s no such thing as bad weather, just bad clothes. The wind gets up again.

The drizzle sharpens. The clouds darken. My woolly hat has an urge to fly. The drizzle becomes rain then becomes RAIN, shouting above the noisy road and my noisy jazz as it rattles my coat.

It’s supposed to be spring, for goodness’ sake: this feels more like winter! Are those hailstones? They are? Is the wind exceeding the speed limit like those cars on the A635? It is.

Then the rain stops suddenly like somebody has closed the rain door. The wind goes home. I walk a bit further. The wind and the rain come back, more enthusiastically.

It keeps happening. And happening. So many seasons, all in one day!