Ireland’s four seasons in 60 minutes

AS I set out, intent upon a 40-minute hike to shake the cobwebs off and reduce the corporation, the day seemed set fair – but then, to use, oppositely, the words of Dylan Thomas’s Poem in October, “The weather turned around/ It turned away from the blithe country ...” and the sky was sudden stained as blue as a bruised damson when a squall swept in off the sea.

Bad timing, thought I, and withdrew indoors just before the heavens bucketed down, the surface of the yard was suddenly hopping with raindrops and I couldn’t see the horses, let alone the bunny rabbits, in the field opposite for the density of the deluge from the sky.

Five minutes later, I looked out again to see a changed world. The shower had passed, and the vista from the window was sparkling. I set off up the bay.