HALLOWEEN has changed over the years, that’s for sure. But I’ve never seen it in glorious sunshine and 28-degree heat.

There was no dooking for apples, dodging treacle scones or monkey nuts. Instead there was the aroma of roasting chestnuts.

Yes, the children were dressed up and eating some junk, but the whole vibe was different, a new insight into festivals as they are celebrated in different ways in different cultures the world over.

Over the past years, the Canary Isles have been breathing life back into an age-old tradition that somehow faded away over the years.

La Noche de Finaos is a Canarian custom traditionally celebrated on October 31, the eve of All Saint’s Day.

Like All Saint´s Day, La Noche de Finaos is a time to commemorate those who have gone on before us by remembering old stories, spending time with family and sharing in nostalgia.

It struck me that we take ownership of seasonal festivals, stamping upon them our own mark. But really, I have learned, they are owned by whoever is enjoying them and living them, and what culture folk identify with, however it evolves and however it changes.

I admit I found it most bizarre when we walked into the local square last week to find a Halloween party in full flow... in baking sunshine.

The children were happy and dry. Not a single mask had turned to sog. There were no knees blue with cold. Painted faces remained intact.

How could Halloween be so hot?

As a child, this heat might not have been such a bonus as I sported my Womble outfit, lovingly run up by my mother on the Singer sewing machine when I was about seven.

On an October night in Scotland, this might have been a sensible choice of costume as temperatures plummeted. I was certainly cosy in my furry suit. Then the heavens opened. I was a very sodden Womble, weighed down by fur from Remnant Kings, monkey nuts and many apples (though there was one house where you might get Fruit Polos and a five pence piece if you were lucky).

But we wombled on, me and R2D2, the girl who was always a princess and the boy who always wore his mum’s clothes and high heels for Halloween.

You’d think after all that I might have learned from experience. Alas, there seems to be some genetic rule that means my son had to undergo similar Halloween trauma.

After several years of tights (the green ones for Peter Pan recycled very well for Robin Hood the following year), we went for the Tin Man from The Wizard Of Oz (oh no, Mum, not more tights!). The costume comprised many padded envelopes sprayed silver (as were the tights) and stapled together. The ensemble was topped off with a jam funnel.

Unfortunately we hadn’t factored in a silver brolly.

Well, the heavens opened. Eventually it was just him and his silver tights looking at a pile of sodden silver stationery.

Perhaps Halloween in the sunshine is better.

At least he was glad of his tights.