I DO confess the effects of climate-change or global warming were not paramount in my mind as I stared in alarm at a five-foot long metal spike headed in my direction from roughly 60 foot in the air.

I was lying on the small beach in Tamariu on the Costa Brava, which is something I do every year and have done so for the past 36 years, sometimes for a week and more recently for three weeks.

We always dock in for a period because it is nice, familiar, warm and increasingly friendly as it is the type of place others, like ourselves, spend a lifetime visiting.

We have always gone on tour and visited different countries every year but the thought of a week, chilling out in Tamariu, having taken one’s brain out upon arrival and put it on charge in the apartment, or more recently the motor-home, is an essential for us.

We know the ropes; it is like a second home and so we can relax instantly. However, I was feeling far from relaxed at the sight of this lofted beach umbrella, which had soared into the air and then hung there on the currents before commencing a downward plunge. Aware I am a little less agile than I was 35 years ago, I raised my thick paperback and the other arm, determined to defend myself, although fearing this indeed could be the end.

The thought of being speared in the head or chest is not a pleasant one to entertain. They say your life flashes before you at such moments, but I was in full negotiating mode, mentally opting for a punctured leg, as I raised my feet.

As if deterred by the sight of my feet and the formidable defensive armoury of an upraised arm and a John Irving paperback, the umbrella veered suddenly as I awaited impact, and flashed past my head, turned at right angles and headed for the sea before flopping ungracefully in the water, where it was quickly retrieved by its owner who did not look half so relieved as did I.

“I thought that had picked you out for sure,” a Lancashire voice reassured me, as I did my best to return from my less than cool appearance of a helpless turtle on its back, and adopted my usual supine position.

The sudden gust of wind had hit four such umbrellas, sending two cart-wheeling across the sands while another rose three foot and then dropped back as if exhausted by the effort and the other climbed high into the sky and looked destined to become a threat to low-flying aircraft before deciding to select me as a target and scare various substances out of my being.

I cannot lie on a beach for long. If it is hot, I have to go in the sea at least three times an hour. The rest of the time I read or talk to fellow holiday-makers, about 20 of whom, come to the village every year, relishing in the fact it has remained unchanged and unspoilt since the 1960s. Yes they have updated the promenade and erected more sophisticated lamp-posts, which seems to be a compulsion for architects every decade, as if this justifies their existence.

“Oh look at those lamp-posts Garcia. They are so old fashioned. We will update them,” says one architect to another and they implement a change and after ten such switches, they opt for a modern-day copy of the traditional lamp-posts they had torn down in the late 1950s, claiming it innovative by opting for the “retro look”.

We talked about the “mass charge of the beach umbrellas” and how we had never witnessed them climbing quite so high. Why, it was only the other day that I had arrived slightly late on the beach to find it crowded but not a soul in the sea. That in itself was a rare sight, but glancing at the flag-pole, I noted the red one was flying.

Apparently beach-guards had walked along the shore and stressed that no one was to go into the sea. It was uncanny, watching the Mediterranean churning and swelling with big waves pounding on the beach, while the holiday-makers lay tanning themselves in the warm sunshine, with only the occasional gust of a breeze.

When one of the owners of the two shops on the front, came out to take photos, you knew it was a rare occurrence.

Was this another example of climate change or global warming? Back in The Tarn, in France, friends advised us to stay in Spain for the rain was falling mainly on southern France. It was the worst July in recent memory and, as if to underline the fact, upon arriving home after an absence of 24 days, instead of being greeted by yellowing grass, there was a vital green swathe which took three progressively shortening cuts to restore to something akin to a lawn. The weeds and plants had achieved Cecil B De Mille proportions, in size and numbers, while the UK was the unlikely recipient of the warmest July for yonks.

Having checked weather forecasts when planning a game of golf for many years, I appreciated there is a high degree of accuracy in their work, but nowadays it seems to be a lottery. Looking for a projection on the weather two days hence, I note it frequently changes right up to the morning of my focus.

So the chances of being advised ahead that seaside gusts might turn a beach umbrella into a deadly weapon are pretty remote. I consoled myself upon returning to our motor home base and going on line and discovering that had I become a beach umbrella fatality, the manner of my passing would not have been that unusual. Judging from the perusal of the web, they are established killers. People who use them should be licensed, I thought, perhaps irrationally..