A glorious halo of summer dawns at Valentines Park.

A glorious halo of summer dawns at Valentines Park.

If you didn't know it was the beginning of autumn you'd have been forgiven for thinking that today felt like a direct throwback to high summer when the sweet crack of cricket ball and tennis ball resounds like a thrilling classical music overture blending seamlessly with the sleepy languor of a July afternoon. But this is the end of October and for whatever reason October did bear an uncanny resemblance to June, July and, quite possibly, August. The seasons have now been plunged into a state of chronic confusion and none of us have got a clue what's happening out in the ether.

This morning Britain awoke to the gentle rhythms of whispering breezes, warm fronts from what seemed like the Mediterranean and the suggestion of a mini heatwave. For a moment this morning my mind briefly took me back to that brilliant heatwave summer of 1976 which, having taken up residence in Britain back in early May of that year, never looked like departing our shores until the August Bank Holiday of 1976. Then thunder, lightning and rivers of rain swept dramatically across the South Downs, the Pennines, the Lake District and right up into the Scottish highlands where even the most intrepid walker had to put up their umbrella.

At Valentines Park in the town where yours truly grew up, all was stillness, quiet, silence and solitude. The swings and roundabouts were beginning to click into first gear, the kids are now on their half term holiday and the schools are taking their brief educational break. On the ground the distinctive snap and crackle sounds made by weatherbeaten leaves are punctuated by the distant sound of an Ilford train grinding to a standstill. But there's something missing here. What Ilford seems to be missing is continuity, familiarity and general normality.

You see the point is that we are now deep into the depths of late autumn and winter is beckoning with its subtle hints, its aching cries and dark moods. But not yet. Well, not quite anyway. Nobody gave these last days of October any semblance of warning, no premonition that summer hadn't quite finished and that there was a final, stirring flourish that none of us would ever forget. I can remember no time, certainly in October, when T-shirts and shorts would be the sartorial order of the day. In fact I could swear I saw totally inappropriate bottles of sun factor lotion standing idly on the fields of Valentines Park.

Here in beautifully bucolic Ilford, the blackbirds and crows are multiplying by the day, the twigs and branches chasing each other frantically into blustery corners of the park. This should be the grumpiest and most cantankerous time of the year. We should all be cowering and hiding in the domestic and cosy comforts of our snug living rooms, curtains and blinds securely protecting us from those noisy turbulences of louder winds and imminent winter storms. And yet this is quite the strangest of October evenings.

There are none of those sinister howls and whistles that normally provide this time of the year with its most definitive soundtrack. Instead this morning you were tempted to fling off your inhibitions, sprint down to the coast and hit the seaside with an overwhelming relish. Sadly it wasn't quite warm enough to bask in the sweltering glow of a gloriously hot summer's day. What became obvious though is that at no point that did it ever feel genuinely summery because there were no bare chests, suntans, swimming trunks and men wearing knotted handkerchiefs in their hair.

Over the years Valentines Park has retained its character and hasn't changed at all or certainly not noticeably so. Admittedly, outside the cafe there is something very striking that I hadn't really noticed before. There are large black sign posts indicating where you should be going should you get completely lost. Now for those who regard this as ever so slightly patronising to those who know exactly where they're going then maybe you're right. One of the directions tells you where the crown bowling greens are, another where the tennis courts can be located and if you've totally lost your bearings then you could always ask the park rangers who never seem to be there when you need them.

When I was a teenager Valentines Park was a hive of activity. Now the pace is much slower and there is a more measured restraint about the park that may still be there but I couldn't feel. Now there is an exercise park with the full complement of much smaller running machines, bikes that I had to admit were disappointingly slow and ineffectual and things that were supposed to pull and stretch your muscles that simply didn't live up to anybody's expectations. They seemed to be designed for those who simply want to do nothing but let off some steam. Not too demanding but fun all the same.

Then there were the tennis courts. Now here we have the most extraordinary of experiences. Valentines Park has potentially the finest and most well appointed of tennis courts. But here's the grievance which I'm loathe to tell you about but it has to be said. These tennis courts are superb theatres of fun and healthy exercise. But when will somebody tell them that some of the surfaces are just appalling? The courts are peppered with large faultlines and embarrassing cracks. In fact it has to be said that, quite honestly, most of the courts are cracked, withering away and in desperate need of a radical overhaul.

But maybe nobody cares or seems unduly concerned which I think is hilarious. The long standing joke of course is that nobody uses the tennis courts anyway apart from Wimbledon fortnight. It is at this point that the courts become conveniently busy and packed at times. Suddenly the whole community suddenly digs out its well strung set of rackets from their cupboards and hurls itself into an epic sequence of pulsating rallies, running forehand returns from the most impossible angles and then those rocket 120mph serves that come hurtling down the centre at blistering speed.

Regrettably though they discover, much to their horror, that time has never been a great healer to these poorly tennis courts. For years and years the deterioration in quality may have been too much to bear without ever being addressed. Unfortunately the tennis nets are not in the rudest of health and there is a sagging, drooping appearance about them that is so sad and forlorn looking that perhaps there seems no point in repairing the damage anyway.

By mid-day autumn still has an identity, the customers at the gorgeous Valentines Park Mansion are enjoying their cream teas, sandwiches and their delicious selection of scones, jam and cream and for all I know there was a barbecue and a liberal sprinkling of Pimms. There are always an abundance of large and small dogs although our bigger canine friends seem to outnumber their smaller acquaintances. The pale. pallid looking leaves are the only indication that the seasons aren't teasing us. A swirl and flutter there and the winds strike up the band, strengthening and whipping up into a frenzied dance.

Now here we are on a late October evening and, after a tragic series of global hurricanes and earthquakes it is hard to escape the feeling that maybe Britain should thank its lucky stars. Today provided Britain with a welcome reminder that sometimes it does gets its own weather forecast dreadfully wrong. At this rate we may well be preparing for a vast outpouring of picnics in the park over the weekend, hugely populated swimming lidos and splashing about in fountains. Oh and we mustn't forget about hose pipe bans, train carriages that feel like saunas and excessive drinking of water because it's too hot. Summer, it seemed had popped in for a quick re-visit. It was so good to see you. Please come back next year.

By next week though it does seem inevitable that winter will come knocking on our doors with a vehement crash, bang and wallop. We'll be staring up at those steel grey skies, pulling up our coat collars in unison and then struggling with yet another collection of umbrellas. We;ll be sneezing incessantly, coughing and hacking, fretting and frowning, wishing somehow that winter would just go away.

So it is that Britain gets ready for another edition of the winter blues where everything outside sways about wildly and furiously, joggers pitifully wiping the sweat and rain from their eyes, traffic lights blinking in the misty murk and a disciplined procession of car windscreen wipers swinging whimsically from side to side as the rain gets heavier and heavier.

Today may have felt like the most false of dawns but surely this late Indian summer day will be no more than some bizarre, unseasonal day of the year when nothing seemed the way it should. Soon the winter pullovers will be unfurled, icy blasts will be cutting deeply into the hardy souls of the British psyche and it'll be raining, snowing and drizzling at exactly the same time. Then we'll let out another one of those long, frustrated bouts of sighing, cursing that wretched British climate and then criticising the rubbish on the TV. Sometimes October has much to commend it. Oh for the days of wine, roses and astonishing,  sun-kissed days in October. We adore the English weather.