YOU know how the minute you put the washing out, the rain starts? So it is that when you go on holiday, the next named storm comes rolling in.

A few years back, we camped in the eye of a storm whose name is lost in the maelstrom of those that have followed. I think it was only our combined weight that held the tent down in that godforsaken field on the outskirts of Haverfordwest.

This time, we enjoyed a half-term city break in Brussels (it was a close call between the Belgian capital and Paris – judging by the widespread protests and riots, we made the right choice).

Our return coincided with the approach of Storm Austen, which bared its teeth and threatened to lay waste to the southern railway network. At London Paddington, countless services to Penzance had been cancelled, or scheduled to start at Reading and finish at Plymouth.

Rather than risk waiting for our reservations on the 1503, we boarded the 1203 tentatively, noting that it had been stripped of several stops. Would we make it safely home in one journey, or find ourselves decanted onto a lonely, windswept station platform in deepest, darkest Wiltshire?

“That would make a great column: ‘We wanted to get home, but Storm Austen had other ideas’,” mused my editor. I, on the other hand, wasn’t so desperate for column fodder that I would forgo sleeping in my own bed for free, as opposed to forking out yet more cash on another hotel.

We settled into our seats, hoping the passengers who had reserved them would be following the advice to travel only if absolutely necessary, and therefore staying at home (unlike us). Happily, this appeared to be the case.

There came the occasional announcement from the train manager, usually along the lines of: “We’ve stopped at a red light – not exactly sure why. More information when we have it …”

There was bad news: a tree on the line. There was good news: it was blocking trains in the other direction, meaning we were able to crawl past it, its branches scraping eerily against the windows.

We made it through weather-beaten Dawlish, but as we pulled into Plymouth station, passengers were given a minute’s notice to grab their gear and get off the train if they were heading for anything other than a branchline connection station. Lucky for us – we rolled into Truro at around 4.45pm, grateful to be home and in one piece.

It’s been quite the year, weather-wise. First Storm Goretti felled a large percentage of Cornwall’s trees and took much of the broadband connection with it. Then we enjoyed/endured (delete according to personal preference) a sweltering summer that brought drought in its wake, resulting in some South West reservoirs sitting at 14 per cent full.

And now Storm Austen has wreaked destruction in our towns and cities: trees on cars in Penzance, temporary fencing brought down in Truro’s historic Boscawen Street, holiday camps evacuated, roads impassable, the Tamar Bridge closed, events cancelled (Camelford carnival and Newquay’s Halloween Zombie Crawl both victim to unfavourable conditions).

Austen brought out the best and worst in people. In north Cornwall, there were reports of fisticuffs on a red-flagged beach when a passerby allegedly challenged a family of surfers approaching the water, with little thought for their own safety or that of those who might be called upon to rescue them. On a happier note, the community swung into action, with libraries and churches among the buildings open as warm spaces and for phone charging.

Small wonder prime minister Andy Burnham has launched the “Be Ready” campaign, suggesting everyone should have a survival kit to hand in times of meteorological chaos, cyber emergencies and hostile state interference (shades of Protect and Survive from the nuclear-wary mid-1970s).

We’re not just talking working torches, and powerbanks for keeping your phones juiced up. Think three litres of water, per person per day; tinned goods (stock up on the spam!); cash, and even a wind-up radio. We had one of those once – I have no idea where it went, and I suspect they are currently selling as fast as fans in a heatwave.

I jest, but I see plenty of sense in “Be Ready”. We were ill-prepared for Goretti, and spent the first evening of a three-day power cut fumbling in drawers for torches and candles, and swearing every time our ageing matches snapped.

I fully intend to make Baden-Powell proud in future. My war chest will be brimming with blankets, bursting with batteries (of all types) and with enough non-perishable food to feed an army, let alone three humans, a cat and a rabbit.

Our elderly parents, meanwhile, have been signed up for the Priority Service Register, which notifies energy suppliers and water companies of users who need more help due to age, disability and other factors.

Here’s hoping, however, that it will be some time before we have to batten down the hatches again.