It feels as if it’s been raining for weeks. As I stare out over the garden all I can see is a lake of bouncing water. Only a month ago the freshly hatched and mated queen bumblebees were busy feeding in the meadow and I was lying next to them with the warm buzz of late summer around me. Now I can’t see a single living creature and I hope the bumbles are hibernating deep in the mound of autumn leaves I’ve piled up behind the shed. It’s grey, depressing and wet – autumn has arrived and, to be honest, it’s not living up to its golden reputation.

As I go to bed I can still hear the rain beating on the window. That’s unusual, as the roof overhang usually stops the rain from touching the glass, but this is rain with attitude, wind-driven horizontal rain, and as I slide under the duvet and close my eyes I try to block out the weather outside. That’s when I notice the scratching.

At first I try to kid myself that it’s a twig rubbing against the window, but the longer it goes on, the longer my brain seems to tune into its persistent rhythm and I can’t get away from the fact that it’s coming from the attic. As I eventually drift off to sleep, rats the size of small dogs and giant marauding grey squirrels fill my dreams and I’m quite surprised to wake to thin watery sunshine and total silence.

The next morning I’m unceremoniously nominated to ‘investigate’ the sounds by my husband, and as I climb the ladder and push open the hatch I’m actually a bit disappointed when everything in the attic seems totally normal. I wander around for a while, stub my toe on a suitcase in the dim orange light from the swinging fluorescent tube, and wish I was wearing more than just my dressing gown. Then I spot them: unmistakable tiny black mouse droppings, smaller than a grain of rice, perched precariously on top of the box with ‘Christmas decorations’ scrawled on its side. Sleuthing concludes for the day.

By the next day I’ve managed to convince myself there’s probably just one mouse who’s probably been flooded out of his garden home. In autumn, as the weather grows cold and wet, it’s not unknown for rural woodmice to take sanctuary in our dry, warm homes. I need to trap and release it – killing isn’t an option in my book. I get on the phone to a friend at a local Wildlife Trust and ask if I can please borrow a few Longworth small mammal traps. I’ve used these before to help survey a local nature reserve for small mammals. They look like little metal tunnels with a bigger box on the end, and the mouse, vole or shrew wanders in (tempted by some tasty morsels and bedding already in the larger box compartment) and as it moves over a small trip mechanism the door to the tunnel falls shut behind it. The mammal is safe, will have plenty of food and will be quite comfortable until I can release it a few hours later – perfect. The Wildlife Trust agree to let me borrow a few.

That night I set up six traps between the suitcases, boxes and discarded gym equipment in the attic. In the morning four out of six doors are closed. It seems I might have slightly underestimated the extent of the mouse migration. I carefully place the first trap into a deep see-through plastic bag and as I take the trap apart the contents gently wriggle into the bag. I quickly remove the trap, hold the bag shut and lift it to eye level. I come face to face with twitchy-nosed woodmouse number one.

There’s no getting away from the fact that woodmice are cute. With enormous black eyes and long whiskers it stares back at me through the plastic bag. I’ve decided to release it under the shed, where it should be dry and safe. I hurry down the ladder, down the stairs, out of the back door, down the garden, round the back of the shed and within seconds it’s free and hopping like a tiny brown kangaroo over a couple of twigs before diving for cover. Half an hour later I’ve successfully relocated the other three. Job done.

That night the scratching from the attic is worse than ever.

OK. There’s obviously quite a big family up there. I set all six traps the next night, and four more are closed in the morning. That’s now eight woodmice I’ve trapped. I repeat the release procedure and tell myself that surely that must be it?

That night I not only hear scratching, but scampering and squeaks too.

I set all six traps again and the next morning five are shut. We’re now up to unlucky-for-some thirteen and I’m beginning to get worried. The attic must be overrun with woodmice – and yet there’s hardly any sign of them. I can’t quite understand what’s going on, so I take to the internet in the hope of finding some answers.

Did you know woodmice have amazing homing instincts? I didn’t. After two further days of marking each mouse caught with a dab of animal friendly coloured marker on the back of its neck, and catching the same five marked mice two nights in a row, I realise that a little journey in the car might be necessary if I am ever going to stop these persistent five from returning to the attic. On the third morning I drove the little woodmouse family three miles down the road and released them together into a beautiful ancient wood with plenty of mouse hidey-holes.

It’s now a week later and I’m lying in bed. It’s perfectly quiet. The scratching, scampering and squeaking has stopped. They haven’t returned . . . yet.

Jane Adams, 2016