RAIN is battering the windows, wind shaking the eaves. At first light, when I opened the shutters, I thought it was snowing. It took a moment to realise that what I had mistaken for snowflakes was a gust of yellow leaves, blown sideways in the breeze. That was something of a relief, since the car is not yet fitted with winter tyres.

There wasn’t much other cause for celebration, though, as the never-ending downpour continued. Not that Hoolet has been badly affected, but parts of the region, especially Hawick, have been toiling. A major emergency was declared here, and when the BBC’s Borders correspondent reported from the scene, the Teviot surged behind him like a writhing serpent, threatening to overrun the place.

Subsequently, hundreds of householders were told to evacuate. Already, our local MP, and other politicians, are clamouring for the on-going flood defence scheme to be speeded up, not just in Hawick but in other vulnerable areas that are always submerged when there are endless days of rain.

If this were a rarity, there’d be less cause for serious alarm. But as the once occasional floods are now becoming almost annual events, there is no doubt that global heating, as we’re now encouraged to call it, is ramping up.

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Only a few weeks ago we were complaining about lack of rain. How distant that seems. Now, wherever we walk, the earth is sodden, sinking beneath our boots. In one respect, there’s nothing unusual about this. The autumnal months are renowned for rainfall.

Some years back, when I was writing a book about the Battle of Flodden, the horror of the slaughter was magnified by the Somme-like conditions in which the men were mired. It was early September, 1513, but in the days before the heavens had opened.

On the lip of the English border, the battle site was more mud than hill. As they raced down the slope to the quagmire at its foot, Scottish soldiers, in their heavy armour, floundered. Caught like wasps in honey traps, they were easily picked off.

This grisly episode will be little comfort to those whose homes and livelihoods have been damaged by the latest deluge, but it is a reminder that, even though there is no denying the increasingly haywire climate, autumn has always been a particularly dank time of year.

Writing about November, Ted Hughes described the scene: “Rain plastered the land till it was shining/ Like hammered lead”.

It’s an apt description for Hoolet right now. The usually douce river that flows through the woods is doing a fine imitation of the Tay in spate, while a low-lying burn burst its banks some days ago, spilling across the road. As our cars ploughed through a foot of water, their undercarriages were washed as never before.

Nearby, fields were turned into ponds, which was fine for ducks but not for cattle, although they are stoical, seemingly impervious to the monsoon conditions. Less so the village dogs, whose miserable expressions beneath their waterproofs matched those of their owners.

There were, however, a few hours of respite one afternoon. As the sun appeared, you could almost hear the stampede as folk rushed outdoors to tie up roses and retrieve toppled flowerpots and branches ripped off in the gales.

For once our birdbath was brimful, despite woodpigeons and blackbirds taking turns to immerse themselves. Regardless of their daily dousing from the skies, they are still keen to have a proper dip. They can’t have received Scottish Water’s message to conserve water. We take heed, although the vagaries of reservoir levels are beyond those of us who don’t understand why we seem to be almost perpetually in a state of looming shortage, when everywhere we look there’s a surfeit.

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Before the latest inundation we were contemplating installing a water butt at the top of the garden, for those months when we will have trouble remembering where we put our brollies. At the moment, the distance from outdoor tap, by the house, and the thirstiest flowerbeds, requires a firefighter’s hose. To give everything a drink takes dozens of watering-can trips. No wonder garden specialists are advising us all to plant species that are like camels, sucking up the rain and holding onto it when times are lean.

Putting in a butt sounds easy, but for the technically challenged the prospect of guttering the summerhouse or shed, and connecting it seamlessly to the container, is daunting. Alan had his fingers rapped by a teacher’s steel ruler in woodwork class, and I was sent home from school with a note recommending I never try knitting again. (I have dismal memories of the turquoise blue scarf that was my downfall. By the time it was completed – though unrecognisable – it was no longer a lovely blue, but the colour of pondwater.)

Cleverer friends have offered to assist, but it feels exploitative to take advantage of their kindness. Our usual bible, an ancient copy of the Reader’s Digest DIY Manual, proves useless, although it’s an excellent substitute for dumbbells.

Online instruction videos make the job look easy. How unfazed the demonstrators are! But the sight of them loosening and sawing through a downpipe and fitting something called a diverter – they do it in seconds – seems to me the recipe for a plumbing disaster or a trip to A&E. Tools required also go beyond our scope, not least a spirit level and power drill. Nor did I realise that you should empty the butt in winter, in case it freezes and cracks. In Hoolet, frost and ice are one of life’s few certainties, from November to March. And then there’s the issue of keeping it algae free...

With so much to consider, I doubt we’ll be in B&Q any time soon. Meanwhile, a small area of the bedroom once more looks as if we’ve been experimenting with darker shades of paint. The damp patch we thought had been fixed proved resistant to a cure.

On day two of the ceaseless downpour, fingers of damp started to creep over the wall. After he received an anxious text message, the roofer was at our door – regardless of the rain – and has come up with a solution. Sadly he can’t put it into action until the rain stops. Whether that day will ever arrive is at present uncertain.

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