EVEN though Hoolet’s electricity cables run underground, folk have been stocking up on candles – our box of 50 has just arrived – and checking their Aga instructions, to find out how to relight them in the absence of volts. Cupboards are filling with food you can eat straight from a can, or from a pan on top of the wood burner, assuming you can wait that long.

Stories of people struggling ten days and more off-grid after recent storms has made lots of us wonder how we would cope in a similar situation. If the worst ever happens, I envisage Hoolet village hall turned into a refugee centre, with a community rendition of the Dashing White Sergeant to get the circulation going before diving into our sleeping bags and trusting to numbers to generate a bit of heat.

Alan won’t be around, of course. He’ll have decamped over the hills to his favourite hotel, as he did during the Beast from the East, when he was on his own in a boiler-less house that was colder than a polar bear’s den.

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Last month, a friend from Stow went three days without power. He mentioned that he and the family had finally given up and gone to MacDonald’s to get through their ordeal. Thinking of the plush hotel at Cardrona, with its spa and golf course, Alan said he could understand why they had splashed out. He was disappointed to learn that it was the Galashiels branch of McDonald’s where they’d headed, for burgers and chips, before returning to their frozen house.

Since Storm Arwen, internet searches for generators have rocketed. Problem is, people like us don’t have a clue how to use one, unless it’s hand-cranked. Even then, if I was in charge of turning the handle I doubt I’d even get our toothbrushes to buzz. So, in the absence of an inhouse electrician who can rig up an alternative source of power, how do you prepare for sudden emergencies, when you might be cut off from the outside world as well as your junction box?

I’m sure Bear Grylls would have a few suggestions, but trapping is not for me. I don’t like skinning an avocado, let alone a deer. Perhaps the wisest purchase would be a headtorch, for bringing in logs or knocking on neighbours’ doors in the middle of the night. After having almost been run over on a walk at dusk last week – it was an uncomfortably near miss – I’m already thinking of investing in one.

Far more exciting, though, is a camping stove, which is one of the top tips for getting through a power crisis. Pictures of these and their gas canisters evoke happy memories of childhood, and the fishy whiff of gas as tea brewed, and the windbreak tried to fly to Norway, and our cagoules rustled like tinfoil. You can still get the basic sort I grew up with, but more sophisticated tastes are also catered for. One I found is so fancy, with various burners and simultaneous grill, Rick Stein could make dinner for the whole village on it.

I’m already envisaging summer evenings heating up beans in the garden, while sauvignon blanc chills in a bucket. No need for ice in the survival scenario, naturally, although I doubt we’ll feel much like having a tipple in those conditions. Whisky lovers advocate a warming dram to keep spirits up during a blackout, but since few things are more unnerving than weather run amok, I’d rather keep my wits in place in case of further problems.

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As well as candles, we already have a Nordic hurricane lantern, so this would nicely complement the holiday vibe of the camping stove. I like the idea of patrolling the village with it in hand, swinging its light from side to side, like a shepherd searching for his sheep. Now all that needs to be added to the list is a flat-bottomed kettle, to sit on the log burner or stove, and a thermal blanket, of the kind used by the mountain rescue. Draped as a throw it will give a space-age feel to the bedroom.

Where we won’t be as well prepared as others, however, even with all these essentials, is with a fire pit. It seems half the country has one, or a chimenea, around which to huddle while safely socialising al fresco. Safely, that is, so long as you don’t trip. They’re hazardous enough outdoors, but since one expert has advised that, in the event of an emergency, do not bring your barbie indoors, I’m assuming that goes also for fire pits.

Despite all the gadgets, the number one recommendation for those in the country is to keep abreast of weather reports. Inheriting my near obsession with Met Office updates from my father, it’s the only part of the news I listen to without interrupting. Yet as I’ve discovered rather too often, it is not a failsafe provision.

Last weekend we went to Langholm for its Christmas market, and found ourselves in a blizzard on the way home. Before it descended, I had been wondering why the roads were empty. There’d been nothing on the news to suggest a white-out. Perhaps the herd of reindeers taking part in the town’s pipe band procession was a hint I ought not to have ignored.

Despite snow flying at the windscreen, it didn’t begin to lie until we were beyond Hawick, half an hour from Hoolet. Around this point we nearly collided on a twisty back road with a gritter that had veered onto our side. He reversed sheepishly to let us by, but it was a useful experience. The winter tyres had proved their worth, as we barely skidded. Some time later we crawled into Hoolet, relieved not to have slithered into a ditch.

Yet when blizzard conditions and ferocious winds were predicted for last week, Hoolet saw nothing scarier than sleet. We had changed our plans for the day, assuming the snow would arrive by evening, and make returning from Edinburgh difficult. Despite the warnings, near perfect conditions remained through the night. Meanwhile, in the north, some poor souls spent hours trapped in their cars on the A9. ’Tis the season to be grateful for getting home safely. Or not cross the threshold until the clocks change.

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